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Karine Basilio | http://bit.ly/kUR4yg

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JOSHUA KARP / FOUNDER AND PUBLISHER Joshua Karp is a Chicago-based entrepreneur. Most recently, he founded The Printed Blog, the world’s first print newspaper comprised entirely of blogs and other online content. Started in December of 2008, launched in January, 2009, shuttered in July, 2009, and relaunched in August 2010, The Printed Blog captured the attention of the national and international media alike, culminating when Business Week named The Printed Blog one of “America’s most promising startups.” You can find Joshua at twitter.com/jkarp and facebook.com/joshuakarp.

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WELCOME TO SUBSCRIBER ISSUE PART I

By Hannah Faye | 5/06/11 | The Printed Blog As we were putting together the last of the free promotional issues, we found that we had way too much amazing content to fit into one periodical alone—so we split the Subscriber Issue into two parts of top-shelf writing and world-renown photography for your viewing pleasure.

If you enjoy receiving the issues of The Printed Blog, don’t forget to subscribe! For only $24 a year you’ll get the best the web has to offer (plus exclusive interviews with some of your favorite bloggers and photographers) delivered straight to your door in a stunning print package.

We’re the only publication in the world to give bloggers and photographers a printed forum to showcase their work, and to present an open platform for fresh individuals from the online community. But we need your support—so get involved! Follow us on Twitter, “Like” us on Facebook, be a part of the conversation. Most importantly, don’t forget to subscribe and make sure that you keep getting each new and beautiful issue The Printed Blog has to offer.

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Jenny Montgomery | http://bit.ly/mpzdV2 SUBSCRIBER ISSUE

KUMBUYA—SAY HELLO TO THE FIRST TRULY SOCIAL DEAL-MAKING SERVICE

By Hannah Faye | 6/13/11 | The Printed Blog

Tyler Shields | http://bit.ly/tylershields

The team behind The Printed Blog is proud to announce its newest venture, Kumbuya (www.kumbuya.com), the first truly social deal-making service. WithJenny Kumbuya, you can Montgomery | http://bit.ly/ promote the businesses you love by creating and sharing your very own daily deals. Creating a deal is easy. You just fill in a quick sentence—here’s an example: “I’d like a 50% discount for a dinner for 2 that costs $100 at Marie’s French Bistro in Chicago, and I’ll get 50 people to join me.”

Then you promote your freshly made deal to your friends, family, fans and followers!

Customers get the deals they want from the businesses they already know and love, and those businesses get to build long-term relationships with customers both new and old (for a better deal than companies like Groupon™ and LivingSocial™ offer.)

Kumbuya offers some amazing programs for bloggers. If you put the Kumbuya badge on your site, anyone can click it to initiate a deal. You’ll receive 25% of our profit on any deal initiated from your site that successfully closes. You can also create your own deal community. A Deal Community is a unique way to connect your website or blog with the deals that you create while establishing a personal presence on Kumbuya, beyond just having the badge. You still get 25% of our profit from all successfully closed deals, but you also get your own page on Kumbuya, complete with links to your site and social media networks, a description of your community, a news feed from your site, and little section about you!

Check us out, www.kumbuya.com, twitter.com/ohkumbuya, and facebook.com/kumbuya!

THE PRINTED BLOG TEAM

JENNY MONTGOMERY / PHOTOGRAPHY EDITOR A 2008 graduate of Columbia College in Chicago, Jenny Montgomery pursues a creative passion in photography with the moral support from her family. She has an affinity for both fashion and documentary style photography and works in both. She has fluidity in her style, understanding that a photograph is not about the image captured, but about everything the moment encompasses—feel, subjects, and idea. Having already completed a documentary story on underground Chicago dive-bars, Jenny is currently working on a photographic commentary on the changes in Detroit, while being the Photography Editor at The Printed Blog. She is also making plans to spend two weeks alone in Arizona for personal desert focused photography.

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Tyler Shields | http://bit.ly/tylershields THE PRINTED BLOG TEAM

CHRISTINA TRKALOVSKA / DESIGN DIRECTOR AND LAYOUT EDITOR A creative person at heart, Christina grew up with pencil and paper in her hands—drawing, painting, and making collages. Translating that childhood passion into a creative career, Christina pursued a Bachelor’s degree in Graphic Design and graduated with honors.

Currently the design director and layout editor at The Printed Blog, she holds a wide range of responsibilities. As a member of the management team, Christina coordinates the activities of four assistant publishers, and several interns. She works with guest editors, contributing bloggers and world-renowned photographers to ensure consistent quality of all selected content. She manages the relationship with the magazine’s print vendor and oversees the commercial printing and issue distribution process.

Christina is driven by the need for challenge, seeking a personal satisfaction in the work she creates.

She recently finished her second degree in Web Design and Interactive Media. You can find Christina on Twitter at twitter.com/kviviana, and see her creative work at www.christinatrkalovska.com.

Jenny Montgomery | http://bit.ly/mpzdV2

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ALEX V. HERNANDEZ / SOCIAL MEDIA MANAGER Alex V. Hernandez is a photojournalist based in the Chicago area. Most of his reporting is based in the South Loop and Pilsen areas of the city.

He likes taking photos, watching old movies, reading comic books and cracking wise. He also has a history of compulsively updating his twitter and facebook statuses to describe and quote the crazy people he encounters on the El. Currently, Alex is working on his M.A. in History at Roosevelt University. His thesis is on technology and media as an agent of change. Recently, he also started a Web comic with a friend, titled Raiding Raouls. Lastly, Alex is a proud native Chicagoan and likes to ride his scooter… a lot. Visit his website at www.alexvhernandez.com.

SOCIAL MEDIA

SOCIAL MEDIA AT THE PRINTED BLOG

By Alex V. Hernandez | 4/05/11 | The Printed Blog Hello! My name’s Alex and I’m the Social Media Manager for The Printed Blog.

Basically what this nifty title means is that I’m the guy behind The Printed Blog’s Tumblr (blog.theprintedblog.com), Facebook Page (facebook.com/theprintedblog), Twitter (twitter.com/theprintedblog) and other social network accounts—bringing you the latest and greatest info from our awesome contributors.

The Printed Blog has the wonderful problem of way too much fantastic content at our fingertips. Because of this, our talented editors have their work cut out for them—going over the online content and picking the best for publication in each issue.

It’s important to us that the gifted photographers and bloggers who contribute don’t just live on the pages of each publication. We want to help bring them together with their fans, colleagues, and all of the other like-minded individuals who make up the community of The Printed Blog.

So that’s where I come in. I’m one of those new media techies that almost always has his blackberry and laptop at the ready for some quick re-posting and tweets on the fly. I like knowing what’s new and cool online and sharing it with cool people. The Printed Blog does this in spades.

Every day I go through all of The Printed Blog’s content and re-post it for our savvy online following. Even more importantly, I’m one of the people in the ongoing conversation between The Printed Blog and its readers.

We love to hear from you—seriously, you guys rock!

So if you’ve got any comments to share, or feel like dropping in and saying “Hello,” follow The Printed Blog’s staff on Twitter: TBP’s Official Twitter @theprintedblog Josh Karp, Founder and Publisher @jkarp Tyler Shields, Co-Founder and Photography Editor @tylershields Christina Trkalovska, Design Director and Layout Editor @kviviana Jenny Montgomery, Photography Editor @jnnymntgmry Hannah Faye, Assistant Publisher and Community Manager @hannahfaye Beverly Kim, Managing Editor and Assistant Publisher @bkEins Alex V. Hernandez, Social Media Manager @DixieScotch Brandon Mendelson, Guest Humor Editor @BJMendelson Laura Hunter-Thomas, Guest Fashion Editor @BeautynotBS GUEST PHOTOGRAPHY EDITOR — ALLIE ELLIS

ALLIE ELLIS / GUEST PHOTOGRAPHY EDITOR Allie Ellis is new to Chicago having spent the last couple of years in upstate New York pursuing her degree in photography and working for the famous George Holz. Her personal fine art photography work tends to revolve around a vintage aesthetic, a love of irony, and miniatures.

Visit Allie’s personal work at www.allieellisphotography.com.

PHOTOGRAPHY BY ALLIE ELLIS

Tyler Shields | http://bit.ly/tylershields

Tyler Shields | http://bit.ly/tylershields TYLER SHIELDS – FEATURED PHOTOGRAPHER

TYLER SHIELDS: A GROUNDED OBSCURITY

By Beverly Kim and Hannah Faye | 4/14/11 | The Printed Blog Tyler Shields is a legend in his own time. A man whose life is equal parts myth and fact, it’s not just his photography that demands attention but his life as a whole. And with so many projects on the horizon, only one thing is certain about the ever expanding artist—the world is going to see a lot more of Tyler Shields.

“I’ve worked the equivalent of an 85 year old man,” Tyler laughs, thinking about his current projects.

As with Tyler’s past endeavors, it’s difficult to say which of his new projects will create the most buzz. Will it be his new reality television show on Syfy which chronicles the edgy and dangerous atmosphere of his shoots? Perhaps it will be his directing and acting debut in “Eyes of a Dreamer,” an upcoming movie whispering the gruesome tale of Charles Manson.

Or maybe it will be his painting gallery exhibition opening in the first week of May, “Life is Not a Fairytale,” showcasing paintings created with actual human blood from his Tinseltown friends.

“I’d planned these very elaborate shoots—some of them involve hundreds of people—and so I said this would be the perfect opportunity to do a show and just film it and just have all of it captured,” says Tyler about his reality show on the Syfy channel. Produced by friend and movie/ television star Zachary Quinto, the show gives Tyler the platform for more outrageous and grandiose adventures.

Taking a step out of working on his Syfy reality series to begin preparations on “Eyes of a Dreamer,” the Charles Manson movie where he will be both directing and taking the lead role, Tyler explains just how the project came to fruition. “A friend of mine, Ali Cobrin, is very good friends with film producer Brad Wyman. He’d been working on this movie about Manson for a couple of years, and he asked her if she could put us in touch.” A Twitter conversation that led to a meeting ended with Tyler in the lead role as Manson as well as behind the camera. “I really figured out that it was the perfect project,” Tyler says.

Perfect project? “I do relate to Manson,” Tyler admits. “I don’t agree with the things that they [Manson and his followers] did, certainly, but I can understand where he’s fascinating to people, and I can understand the time he was in, and I can play that very well.” Tyler adds, “He [Manson] controlled a lot of things psychologically, and I come from a very intense psychological background just with my life, so I can understand.”

Though his personal psychology is more than just something he draws on to get into character, Tyler is indeed a man of genuine and eccentric talent. Along with all his work in media such as photography, television and film, he has branched into areas of a much more traditional field with a very twisted contemporary take. His first painting exhibition, “Life is Not a Fairytale,” premieres on May 7th and opens May 8th to the public. His paintings in this gallery opening feature the blood of more than twenty celebrity volunteers who opened up their veins for use of painting.

Having worked with blood, both real and fake, before, Tyler has had plenty of experience dealing with the criticism and reaction it solicits—but shock value isn’t his intent. “I think it has to be personal for me,” he insists. “It does something for the painting, the blood—it has a look and a feel that you cannot recreate.” He adds, “People can paint with blood, but for this time and space, no one will ever be able to do it again the way I did it with these people, and that adds to the intimacy of it.”

Even pursuing the goal of writing a book, a recount of his childhood, it seems like there’s no artistic medium that Tyler hasn’t tackled—from photography to painting, filming to books—but what would he do if he had to work in a non-creative field? “I would probably design weapons for the government,” Tyler concludes, “I have the ability to fragment those types of things in my brain, so…” he laughs, “I have many things I’d like to create.”

And that’s Tyler—always thinking, always creating, always working on new projects and ideas. His art has become so ingrained in his life that the lines between personal, professional, and social have blurred into one chaotic adventure. “I don’t really go out much,” he admits, “I don’t drink, I don’t do drugs, I just try to create as much as I possibly can.” Living in a high demand, fast paced world, be careful in the presence of Tyler Shields: blink and you may miss the perfect shot.

VIEWS EXPRESSED WITHIN THE PRINTED BLOG DO NOT NECESSARILY REFLECT THE VIEWS OF THE PUBLISHER OR THE PRINTED BLOG INC. WWW.THEPRINTEDBLOG.COM

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PHOTOGRAPHY

SEX / LOVE

THE CRAIGSLIST CREEP

By Single Girlie | 3/15/11 | Single Girl Blogging

http://bit.ly/mjT4H1

I’ll never forget my very first online date. Although I wish I could.

It all started a little over three years ago. I was nervous about uploading my profile and picture to an official dating site like Match.com, so I decided to dip my toe in the water with a little website called Craigslist.

Craigslist had been around for a few years, but this was long before the Craigslist killer and before anyone realized it was little more than a haven for creeps and an online photo gallery of penises.

I figured I’d put up an ad, men would respond, and if someone tickled my fancy I could contact him. Or not. No commitment, no pressure. It was my little puppet show and I pulled the strings.

I posted an ad and received about 100 responses. I sifted through them and one guy sounded interesting. He was brutally hot and looked like Johnny Depp, except cleaner. He was also from Europe. I was in my European phase so this was great news. I wondered if he had a sexy French accent. Or maybe he was a cute Dutch boy. I was becoming excited at the possibilities.

I sent him my picture and we agreed to talk on the phone to set up the date. It turned out he was from Turkey and his accent wasn’t sexy at all. He had a sharp, halting voice that deeply offended my cochlea. But I kept my focus on the magnificent face on the end of the line that would make up for it.

He suggested a restaurant in Santa Monica and we arranged to meet the next day. Since he’d only sent me the one photo, I asked if he looked like his picture. He told me that his hair was shorter now, but he looked better than his picture. I felt my ovaries shimmy.

The Big Night The next evening I was so nervous getting ready. I even left work early to give myself enough time to beautify. What should I wear? Hair up or down? A smokey eye or a red lip? After sufficient primping, I felt confident and set out to meet the gorgeous man.

I arrived before he did and started checking out the menu. Suddenly, I felt someone sneak up behind me and say “Boo!” I turned around and nearly had a seizure.

Who the…? Where is…? Am I being punk’d? There must be some terrible mistake. Then he said my name and I realized there’d been no mistake.

I’d been bamboozled.

The man standing before me was not the man in the picture. I am not being hyperbolic. This man was a completely separate human being than the one whose photo was sitting in my inbox.

Not on his best day ever, not 15 years ago, not with copious hours of Photoshop was this the same guy. I expected Johnny Depp and what turned up was a Middle Eastern version of Paul Giamatti.

He had said his hair was shorter—how was I to know this was code for bald?

I was taken so off guard I had no idea how to react. As if in some kind of bad dream, I said nothing and somehow wound up at a table with him. I was stewing behind my menu when I looked up and caught him staring at me with his buggy eyes. When I asked why he was looking at me like that, he said he was “enjoying the view.” I wished I could’ve said the same.

If you consider me shallow by focusing on his appearance, you bet your ass I am. Looks matter.

Attraction matters. Just ask the peacocks. But what peeved me most was the deception. And for the record, no, he did not have an endearing personality. He was a real turkey. From Turkey.

For the life of me, I still cannot fathom what this guy was thinking when he sent me that picture. Nowhere in my ad did I say I was vision impaired. Did he really think he could pull this off?

Shaking the Turkey When the date finally ended, I shook his hand, thanked him for dinner and ran for the car.

As soon as I got home, the phone rang. It was Turkey, wanting to make sure I made it home alright.

I let it go to voice mail and went to sleep.

The next day, he called me at 8 a.m. And again at noon. And again at 4 p.m. Each time his voice mail said he was just “checking in.” Checking in? You are not my boyfriend, numbnuts!

You’re just some charlatan who managed to con me into dinner with a fake picture you shoplifted off the Internet. I sent him an e-mail telling him I was not interested.

Fortunately this ding-dong did not contact me again… until last week. I received an e-mail telling me that Turkey had joined Facebook and wanted to be my friend. And guess what? That’s right, he’s using the SAME PICTURE. I couldn’t help but feel a tad bit guilty for not calling him out on his duplicity three years ago.

Who knows how many women I might’ve spared from the trauma I endured?

Alas, I shall have to pass the duty on to another poor, victimized soul. Because I sure as hell am not going to friend him on Facebook.

PHOTOGRAPHY

Andrea Klarin | http://bit.ly/j1ZFtL

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Alexey Sorokin | http://bit.ly/kWxSbu

GETTING INTO THE CELL[PHONE] BLOCK TANGO

By Benjamin Kissell | 3/22/11 | Stuff That Makes A Gay Heart Weep http://bit.ly/j9sysM Nothing makes a Gay Heart weep tears of embarrassed frustration quite like getting into a cell-phone or Facebook war with an ex.

Instant social outlets like Myspace, Facebook, Twitter and our cell-phones have added a new dimension to the Ex-games.

For example, after deleting that asshole ex [bias] from your cell his “unidentified number” repeatedly pops up, causing you to mistakenly answer—or, G*D forbid, momentarily to act civil. Or when perusing your friends’ pages on Facebook [yes, we all FacebookStalk, own up to it boys and girls] you see his photos with his “OMG sooo cute” new boyfriend [gag me]. When this happens, Gay Hearts enter what is affectionately known as the “Cell[phone] Block Tango” (where each of you tries to maneuver around and be the first to block and/or delete all knowledge of the other).

When chatting with my friend Andrew yesterday, I realized that I have my own Cell[phone] Block Tango [so named from the Cell Block Tango in Chicago, gays and girls] while I was listing off a few of the people I had actually gone so far as to block and whose names are stored as “Ignore” in my cell, from the last 10 years of dating.

The loud snort as I sang “Pop/Six/Squish/UhUh/Cicero/Lipschitz” was possibly heard ‘round the world.

In the promise of honesty and love [promise not to judge me too harshly and forgive the Chicago-themed phrasing], here is a version of my own Cell[phone] Block Tango…

Bop. Slick. Swish. NuhUh. Sissy’ho. Flippant.

He had it coming. He had it coming. He only had himself to blame. If you’d have been there; If you’d have read it, I bet’cha you would have done the same. #Bop. You know how some people have some annoying habits? Well, while dating Alvin he sat on the couch all the time. He liked to fart—no, not fart, light his farts on fire. I told him, ‘Do that one more time… ’ and he did. So, I took the mouse over on Myspace and I clicked 2 warning shots; onto his profile—blocked and reported it. … I bet’cha you would’ve done the same. #Slick. I met AssCole, from Richmond City about a year ago, and he told me he was single and we hit it off right away. So I helped him find an apartment and move. Things were going swimmingly, dinner and flirts. It was like Heaven in one and a half counties. Then he told me he wanted to stay single. Heh. Single my ass. Dating 4 different guys on dating sites. So, that night, when I saw him online… you know, some profiles just can’t hold off a virus. … he had it coming, he had it coming all the time. #Swish. I’m sitting there, at the computer, minding my own business, and online storms a 20-something drama queen I barely know who starts Facebook IMing me in a jealous rage that I’m ignoring him. He’s crazy and keeps IMing that I’m screwing with his head. And then he ran into my block button. He ran into my block button 3 times [Facebook and the 2 dating sites]. … if you’d have been there, if you’d have seen it? #NuhUh. But, did I block him? NuhUh. I BLEEPING blocked him. #Sissy’ho. My roommate and I were dating a pair of friends. One night we were all hanging out, boozing and having a few laughs when we ran out of material and my roommate and I went home. The next morning I wake up to a text-message where my marine had texted me Number 2: a Dear John. Apparently he and several of his friends were doing the Spread Eagle. I completely blacked out, I mean, it wasn’t until later when I was deleting every photo of us off the computer that I even realized it was over. … I didn’t do it, but if I’d done it, how could you tell me I was wrong? #Flippant. I enjoyed talking with Shane, more than I can say. But he was a real artistic guy: sensitive, a drinker. But he was troubled, he was always trying to find ways to break down my spirit. Along the way he bruised my ego and attacked my accent. I guess you could say I blocked him because of artistic differences: He saw himself as human, and I saw him as scum. … the dirty bum, bum, bum…

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BATTER OF THE SEXES

By Ari Costa | 1/22/09 | I Rant So Far Away

PHOTOGRAPHY

http://bit.ly/kVSZ2R

“I want you to fill me up, stuff me like feta cheese into a big green cocktail olive,” Huh? What? How did I get here with this mascara moron shouting culinary indecencies into my furious dripping mug? I mean I love sex, who doesn’t? I used to love food too; I loved chicken potpie until she explained it was a metaphor for her voracious appetite for my holy “drumstick.” I loved strawberries until she told me where she lost one while experimenting as a young teen (4 days she couldn’t get it out, the doctor tried too, it was finally her uncle who dislodged the refreshingly fruity dam). Seriously look at me, I’m working; I’m at work, see that vein in the middle of my forehead, that’s my fornication vein, see my gritted teeth, in about ten more seconds the top two Chiclets are going to shatter, it’s a defense mechanism, it means shut the fuck up. Blood will dribble from my mouth onto her soft skin and instead of scaring her she’ll compare it to something sweet like cherry syrup and keep telling me to “eat that peach!” like a demanding African American single mother of three.

“Oooh yea almost there almost there, now pass out the pigs in a blanket… don’t overcook, don’t overcook… ok, ok yes yes and toss that olive in the martini, annnnnnd done” Excuse me, 23 yr. old hipster Julia Childs can you stop with the food references. I don’t even like whip cream touching the surface of my palm while I watch skinemax, much less re-enacting the cream cheese scene from Caligula in my bedroom. The last thing I need is a sexual “partner” that can’t stop shouting about meat made out of pig scraps as I reach climax. The whole session would go on like this, and I’m sorry I really am, but food and sex they just don’t mix.

“Appetizers, oooh baby fontina cheese on the quiche, sprinkle it, sprinkle it, little more, ok ok now put it in the oven, oooh its hot don’t burn yourself baby!” What!? Never compare the most important part of a man to a quiche, c’mon if it’s gotta be food give me the salami, or the popsicle, the banana or the… fuck I don’t even care the carrot stick, but not a small round appetizer. And oven? I don’t want to hear your babymaker referred to as an oven under any circumstance. There will be no “bun in the oven,” “no roast in the heater,” “no pizza in the broiler,” nothing is going in that spot when the euphemism you choose, by nature, heats things up until they are edible.

You don’t call it an oven and I won’t call it a babymaker, deal?

But no these food references didn’t stop, at first I thought wow this girl is perfect she comes over at 1 am, stays for an hour, then I spread out like Henry VIII in my California King as she heads off to the Guillotine or whatever Silverlake bar she sauntered out of. But, eventually food references became food. She’d say “c’mon it’s just a little chocolate syrup,” or “hey it’s just a bit of honey,” then it was ketchup, it was milk, it was fritos, cream of spinach, then chicken, briscuit, a full Easter dinner. Next thing I know, she had moved the microwave to my nightstand; there were banana muffins cooling on my Fender and my bedroom smelled like a prison cafeteria after a 30 man riot and a sopping sodomy soiree. I began washing my sheets 3 times a week and thinking hey this is normal, women are weird. But the sex was just so good when we started, when the food references were at a minimum, and when she came to cum and left when it left me.

Soon she was staying overnight; she was reading “Barefoot Contessa,” and “Giada’s Kitchen” by nightlight and whispering, “3 Teaspoon’s of Cumin” in my ear. My room started to resemble a cross between Mike’s Pastries and Hustler; it was “Larry Flint presents: the Bakers Dozen,” I had my own Porn Cakery. She liked to call it the Sweaty Muffin shop; I liked to throw up in my mouth a little when I heard that.

And then it set in, at first for me, it was “No I’ll pass on breakfast,” then it was “wow I’m just really not hungry for lunch,” and then geez “I ate a huge dinner 3 days ago.” Eventually the sex came to a halt because my bed was a lasagna testing station, I stopped going to work because I was too weak and malnourished to leave home, I started to get dizzy spells because her steak supreme and garbanzo surprise made my thoughts nauseous. The very site of her retreated my appetite back into my quickly decaying body as it ate away at what nutrients it could find. And I guess I finally passed out or lost consciousness, or my body just couldn’t take it anymore and that’s when I ended up here, in this hospital bed, with food being forced into my mouth and nutrients pumped into my veins by a 40 yr. Old ex boxer and 6 feet of plastic tubing. Apparently I was anorexic, but it was more than that too. I had “Comestible Depression” combined with “AntiGormandize Reproduction Syndrome.” These were grounds for not just a hospital stay but a year of rehabilitation as well; this was “what Charles needs to take back his former life.”

But at night to my horror she would sneak into my room, drag a microwave from the cafeteria all the way down the hall and heat up leftover culinary concoction number 2,645. She would take off her clothes and mount my broken soul shouting, “I want you to fill me up!!” as a single tear would run down my chocolate chip cookie cheek.

PHOTOGRAPHY

Alice Rosati | http://bit.ly/kuoK9J

Tyler Shields | http://bit.ly/tylershields

Tyler Shields | http://bit.ly/tylershields

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LIFESTYLE

THOUGHTS FROM A GIRL IN A BAR

By Jessica Druck | 3/13/11 | Hello, My Name is Jessica

http://bit.ly/kWZzkZ

Girls walk into a bar.

The night is young, my vision is clearer than it will be; friends are still coherent, I remember my last name at this point and no one is crying or throwing up yet: so far, so good.

Wait, did I just step on glass and did someone just spill their drink on me? It’s only 10 p.m.

What the hell? I’m not drunk enough for this.

Of course, the only open spot at the bar was next to “dude alone at bar.” I wait for lady bartender to come to me but she’s busy adjusting her shirt in front of all the guys.

He stares, then looks away; stares again and looks away. I watch in the corner of my eye but have no intention of looking because I know if I do, I’m screwed.

Would this bartender hurry up? Seriously lady, stop serving all the guys.

(Please don’t say anything to me, please don’t say anything to me.)

“Hi, I’m Mike.”

Damn it.

Jessica, be polite. He is asking where my friends are and where I’m sitting. Is it rude to scream “What? I can’t hear you, the music is too loud” while pointing at my ear and shaking one finger?

Lady bartender finally gets to me. I wanted vodka with my soda but whatever. I should’ve had “dude alone at bar” order it for me and then run.

30 minutes pass and it’s that time where I have to use the bathroom.

Line: out the door.

The men’s bathroom looks so inviting. There’s no one in a line, or even inside. I stare in as the door opens and closes practically in slow motion while guys look at the pitiful line I’m in and laugh to themselves after being done in one minute.

Why do five girls have to go in the bathroom at once?

Finally, I get in. Why are public restrooms always so wet?

Now I’m waiting again while girl putting mascara on hovers over the only sink laughing uncontrollably and spilling the contents in her purse everywhere as she tells me she wants to fuck her boyfriend’s friend, “but shhhh don’t tell anyone.”

Who are you again?

15 minutes later.

I order another drink, this time ten stools away from “dude alone at bar.” Finally, a guy is bartending. Of course he got to me quick and made it strong. Sexism is alive and well.

I will probably be on the floor after this but oh well, here’s to Courtney Love.

Sitting with friends I notice a group of guys who are playing “stare but don’t look obvious” with us.

Not too bad, they look pretty good: no missing teeth and they have shoes on so they pass.

(Note to self, whatever you do, don’t make eye contact with creepy friend who is staring.)

Oops. I hate myself.

Five minutes later they walk over. I need to wear my glasses more often, only one of the five is decent.

Oh well. The Conversation is doable; I think I laughed a little but creepy friend is creepin’. Is that his foot on my leg? Is that his hand on my lower back?

Insert funny jokes and lies about professions here.

“What are you guys doing after this?”

Oh, that question (deer in headlights look). I take another drink and turn it over to friend #1 who is really drunk.

I don’t know what she said but she laughed like a little school girl so I think they got the hint.

“Can I get your number?” Wink.

“Sure can’t.” Smile.

He laughs at least.

It’s almost 2 a.m. The drunk keep getting drunker. It’s like the Thriller video. There’s “dude alone at bar.” Accidental eye contact again. I don’t like myself when I drink.

Why do drunk girls request so much Britney Spears?

Three times they played her.

Three times I killed myself in my head.

Girls leave bar.

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FEATURED PHOTOGRAPHER — RANKIN

RANKIN Synonymous with dynamic and intimate portraiture, the photographer Rankin has shot everyone from royalty to refugees. His powerful images are part of contemporary iconography, and mix a cross section of his own personal interests with commercial campaigns, from Nike to Women’s Aid. His work is regularly exhibited in galleries around the world from Sao Paolo to Moscow, London to LA. Rankin first came to prominence when he co-founded Dazed & Confused with Jefferson Hack. One

of the most important magazines of the 90’s, it established its stylists in the fashion elite, broke some of today’s top designers and nurtured the budding careers of a generation of creative photographers.

Earning a reputation for creative portraiture and a talent for capturing the character and spirit of his subjects, Rankin quickly became a formidable force in photography, shooting Brit-pop bands including Pulp and Blur and darlings of pop such as Kylie and Madonna. Rankin’s career continued to blossom, and covers for German Vogue, Harpers Bazaar, Arena and GQ quickly followed.

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LIFESTYLE

WRITING

TWENTY YEARS OF TEARS IN TWO HOURS

By Katie | 2/01/11 | Katie Blogs

http://bit.ly/iNajXC

“I hate forgiving people. Knowing that I have a legitimate reason to dislike someone fuels me each and everyday and I go to work and listen to “Down With The Sickness” and imagine myself beating the shit out of people who mess with me.”

I found THAT morsel of positivity in an old journal. I wonder if Disney would make a movie featuring that quote. We can call the movie FANFUCKINGTASIA. Anger was my friend for a while.

Not to be all dramatic, but truth be told, I’ve been wronged. A lot. For something like 20 years I’ve swallowed a lot of it and went back for seconds. (TWSS).

I would let whomever do whatever to me and blame myself for what happened. I’d allow people to say things in my presence that hurt my feelings and simply let it slide. I’ve accepted mediocre relationships that were damaging just for the sake of “having a relationship.” I’ve watched people rip other people (and me!) apart, and kept completely silent. I bullied myself into a silent suffering because “only the weak show struggle.” Or so I believed.

One of the things I learned quickly in therapy was how to mourn losses. I went through 20 years of abandonment issues over the course of 4 months and made a quick transition from an emotional stonewall to an emotional sponge. I was allowing myself to absorb and feel all of the anger, sadness, resentment, and pain from being disappointed and hurt over the years instead of blocking it all out.

What I forgot to learn how to do was release it all. I never learned to squeeze my sponge.

SALVATION

By Todd Rinker | 3/09/11 | Peanut Butter for the Roof of Your Brain http://bit.ly/jNUZ4t that was close. fuck. you almost had me. you almost pulled me out into the light. i almost let you. luckily you let me know i was imagining things so that i could fall back into the place that is most comfortable. the black cold void. it’s peaceful here. and i can concentrate without thoughts of you swirling around making me do stupid shit like smile and daydream. too distracting. i have work to do. things to take care of. i don’t want the turmoil of salvation. i don’t want the vulnerability. too much uncomfortable happiness. thank you for reminding me of this. thank you for making decisions for me. thank you for knowing what i wanted instead of letting me decide that for myself. thank you for not really being my salvation. fuck. that was close.

PHOTOGRAPHY

TIMEOUT: I’m sorry, I feel like that’s some kind of urban dictionary term for masturbation. Maybe ring my rag would be better? Yeah, didn’t think so.

TIME-IN! As great as I am at giving myself permission to feel hurt, sad, angry, etc., I’m not so good at releasing that negative energy. While it’s super awesome to feel these things, it’s not super awesome to hold it all in. Eventually it’ll become incredibly toxic.

Last night, I had a really good cry. It wasn’t pretty at all. I kind of hate people who, even when they cry, they’re beautiful. When I cry, it’s a hot mess. When I say my pillowcase was soaked, it was dripping wet. (TWSS).

I cried for a lot of things last night: I cried because I’m not in college, yet.

I cried because I haven’t saved as much money as I would have liked to.

I cried because Mandy Moore died in A Walk to Remember.

I cried for the negligent nature of others that I’ve had to pay for.

I cried for missed opportunities.

I cried for friends, family, and heroes who have died too soon.

I cried for failed friendships.

I cried because the 10 for $10 Chicken Pot Pie I had for dinner sucked.

I cried for lost loves.

I cried for past mistakes.

I cried for huge regrets.

I cried for being let down in a million ways by the people who should have been there.

I cried for feeling shameful of who I was this time a year ago.

I cried because I’m so fucking overwhelmed with work and emotions that I literally feel like I’m going to explode.

This whole pity party lasted two hours. I swear I lost at least 15 lbs of water weight and pulled a muscle in my neck. I felt like it was never going to stop, and I was certain that I’d spend the rest of my life as a sobbing freak.

But eventually, I did stop. 20 years of left over and absorbed heartache, pain, anger, and disappointment were released into a pillowcase over 2 hours.

When I was done squeezing my emotional sponge, I took my pillowcase of tear juice and washed it. While it dried, I dried and washed my face. I took a hard look at myself in the bathroom mirror. I was open and completely vulnerable with the person who I find it hardest to be open and vulnerable around: myself.

In that moment of vulnerability, I told myself that I wasn’t going to let another 20 years of pain and resentment build up like that ever again.

I forgave all of the shitty things people have done to me—from 10 years ago to 10 days ago.

All is forgiven. Not for them, but for me. I’m too awesome to be carrying around the weight of other people’s opinions, mistakes, and faults.

Contrary to my aforementioned teenage angst-fueled quote, forgiveness isn’t too bad. It’s almost like open-heart surgery, in both a literal and metaphorical sense, because, well, that’s how I roll. It’s not pretty in progress, but the outcome is hopefully a healing and stronger heart that’s ready to take on the world. Only with a different, more healthy approach.

By the way, in case you were wondering, I didn’t coin Squeeze The Sponge. Apparently it’s already defined. Haters.

PHOTOGRAPHY

Amber Isabel | http://bit.ly/jZlIai

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Olivier Valsecchi | http://bit.ly/m6ipto LIFESTYLE

LIFE AFTER METH

By Single Mama CC | 8/11/10 | Not Your Average Single Mama

http://bit.ly/mKEPpG

I made it through eight minutes of an episode of Intervention once before I felt my stomach turn, my mouth started to water the way it does right before you blow chunks and I ran out of the room.

Yeah, *I* ran… away from my own television set.

I stood in the hallway, my heart pounding out of my chest, I couldn’t breathe, I felt like I was suffocating… I couldn’t cry, scream or even think straight… my legs felt like Jello… finally I gasped, fell to my knees and bawled like a fucking baby. Why? What the hell?! It’s just a tv show!

It’s just a tv show that I cannot watch.

It’s not a bad show that I’m aware of, I honestly only made it through eight minutes… I’m not bashing the show… it’s just… for me… I can’t watch it.

Something similar happened tonight… anti-meth commercials are now popping up all over network television. I felt the same crazy anger creeping up on me as I watched the commercial. I made it through the whole commercial (yay me) but then it occurred… I cannot watch someone strung out on meth, a fragment of who and what they used to be… I cannot watch another family pull desperately at string that are already frayed, only to have their loved one take the frayed string and hang themselves with it.

It’s painful, insulting, heart-breaking and makes my blood boil.

I have absolutely no patience/tolerance/sympathy for a meth addict.

For any meth addict.

The smell of a meth addict makes my fists clench in fear… and a bit of anger. The sight of a meth addict makes me sick to my stomach. The twisted and warped words that come out of their mouths makes me so bloody angry I want to punch a kitten.

I left my job at the hospital because I just couldn’t muster up the compassion to care for a meth addict. Honestly. I didn’t want to help them… that’s not like me (even on my bitchiest day I’m a helper) I figured if they wanted to smoke that fucking poison then they could tough it out till they OD’ed. Rather than adding “watch a meth addict OD” to the list of shit I did, I left.

I left my meth addicted husband, I left the job I once loved, I left my friends, I left my home…

I left that town. I knew that meth would be wherever I tried to go, but I figured not knowing the addicts personally would make a difference.

It hasn’t.

It’s been years since I lived the Book of Meth… it’s been years since I’ve seen a meth addict that I know personally. I refused to see my own cousin until I was certain he was clean… I’m not easily convinced either, but that boy proved himself and continues to prove himself to this day.

It occurred to me tonight that it may always be this way for me… I may never be able to watch Intervention or care for an addict… I may never see a glass pipe and not get sick to my stomach, the sight of a meth addict could very well haunt me for the rest of my life.

Although I personally have never used meth (or anything outside of my beloved Mary), it still managed to leave a scar on me. He may have been the addict, but he wasn’t the only one who was affected by it. I live with his bad decisions everyday, I have the nightmares of fighting him off me, my stomach turns at the sight of a glass pipe, meth is a drug that whether you use it or not… you ARE going to feel the aftermath.

I can’t possibly be the only one in the world whose ex is a meth addict.

Where are you ladies? I want to know what it’s like for YOU. The one who feels the burn of someone else’s addiction even after they’re gone…

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Tuva Kleven | http://bit.ly/mEh0az NEAL BOULTON – FEATURED BLOGGER

STRANGERS WILL SAVE YOUR LIFE

By Beverly Kim | 4/15/11 | The Printed Blog “I want to be the guy at the bar that stands up for you if someone calls you a faggot,” says Neal Boulton, the New Yorker behind the acclaimed reader content driven websites, BastardLife.com and HeroinLife.com. Focusing on content provided by the reader, both websites create platforms where members of their respective communities, whether they are sexual or drug based, can express and share their thoughts and feelings, their happiness and their fears, together. “Community is communication with each other to remind ourselves we’re not alone. We don’t need to feel guilty about how we feel,” Neal says about the idea behind service journalism, a field that he’s been a part of for years as the man who specialized in re-launching magazines before starting his own work. It was following his resignation from Men’s Fitness to pursue his humanitarian work that he launched the wildly successful BastardLife.com, an online magazine for pansexuality.

BastardLife was named after the idea that, “in order for you to be upfront and open about not being a part of the mainstream sexuality of a country, you kind of have to be a bit of a bastard.” A pansexual himself, identifying his preferences by person, not by gender, Neal committed himself to developing BastardLife to publish the information about what everyone else was thinking, because, “Hey, if you’re thinking it, chances are someone else is too. It creates a community of people who realize they’re not alone.” With this sentiment in mind, he opens doors for those who have felt trapped or confined in their thoughts, offering mental freedom that he was unable to achieve in his own youth, but now has in his life through his loving marriage of twenty years to his wife, Claire, and through the close relationship he maintains with his children.

In 2010, Neal created Heroinlife.com, a place where anyone part of the heroin community, from users to those concerned, can congregate in the same open forum as they are able to in BastardLife. Using his own addiction experience as fuel to drive his need to help others, Neal Boulton recounts his “fall up” with heroin: “I could never shut my mind off. I turned to coke, I turned to booze. It was great and it was fun and I was living in L.A. and I was living the life I aimed for. But I couldn’t shut my mind off and it was unbearable. It [heroin] was the only thing that shut my mind off and shut my body down. It was the off switch. And I just managed it. The more drugs I did, the more successful I became.” It was only after he woke up in a hospital with tubes all around and in his body that Neal stumbled out the door and never looked back over his shoulder to the place he didn’t want to be. “I had to acknowledge I needed help. I greatly needed help.”

Taking to the couch in a writhing and excruciatingly painful heroin withdrawal, Neal found a sliver of optimism while browsing the internet in a website offering heroin addicts support and information. The discovery of this website eventually led to the inspiration and creation of HeroinLife, similar to the site he stumbled upon, but vastly different in that HeroinLife offers expressive content by readers. HeroinLife was not only formed with the initiative to help others, but was also created by Neal’s own need to express his thoughts during times of his addiction turmoil. His first trip to rehab in 1988 was followed by five more, and with a total of twentyfive years to achieve two years of clean time, Neal had a burning fervor to remain linked and connected to his past heroin problems, as a reminder to never forget the darkness and disparity that once shrouded his life.

Neal paused and sighed deeply over the phone, his voice contemplative and mellow, “I wanted to immerse myself in recovery. I didn’t want it to fade into the background.” As a journalist and publisher, he utilized the skills he possessed to assist in healing others through service journalism.

“Service journalism is always at the core of what I try to do. It’s at the core of all the magazines I relaunched and it’s at the core of BastardLife and HeroinLife too.”

HeroinLife brings together a close knit “family,” where those seeking help, those who have won the fight, and those who are worried about their loved ones can gather and access the multitude of resources available on the website, along with the candid and sincere words of the community. HeroinLife provides a free rehab and detox finder that is non-profit and not affiliated with any associations or clinics, paired alongside statistical information that is backed up by personal reader experiences. “When it comes to something as intimate as your sexuality or drug addiction, readers tend to trust other readers that have gone through the same thing, not TV doctors who haven’t been addicts or doctors affiliated with rehabs.”

When posting content to both BastardLife and HeroinLife, Neal doesn’t consider himself the “publisher” or “editor.” Rather, he sees himself as a moderator that guides the content, the reader’s voice, on to the website in a way that is striking, simple, and poignant. “Experience.

Strength. Hope. That’s what it’s all about. It’s what we’re extracting from all the letters, and we post them on our Twitter and website. The readers write the content.”

A lighthouse above the dark and hazy fog of addiction, HeroinLife is the place where heroin addicts go to for stories and support.

It is the place where concerned friends and family go to for information and guidance.

It is the place where those who’ve lost their loved ones to the fight go to for comfort, and to be healed by reading the memorialized words of hope left behind.

Neal Boulton’s HeroinLife is a haven where readers heal readers, mend broken spirits, and repair and create new relationships through the power of writing, camaraderie, and expression.

Currently Neal Boulton is writing a memoir chronicling the period of time in which he used heroin in secret. For stories and more information visit www.bastardlife.com and www.heroinlife.com.

Brendan George Ko | http://bit.ly/l7tAQH SEX / LOVE

BULLET DODGING

By Neal Boulton | 1/25/11 | BastardLife

http://bit.ly/jWvoeL

“Never.” That’s what most people say when encouraged to practice safer oral sex by wearing condoms; others just say, “Yuck.” But many of you have written in asking about everything from how dangerous oral sex really is to how to go about choosing the perfect oral sex skins.

To be clear, oral sex does indeed have its risks: to avoid “some” danger, swallow or spit right away; to avoid all risk, don’t do him at all; to avoid as much danger as possible while still having fun: find a good condom—and use it, you may just dodge a killer bullet. Here are some tips that may help you when you’re using or shopping for your latex.

Avoid condoms with N-9, as spermicidal lubricated condoms will cause your tongue to go numb; plus, they taste disgusting.

Some flavored condoms are made just for “fun” safe sex, but most of the ones we tested were hideous; rather, try the flavored lubes like Dulce de Leche, Mojito Peppermint, Pomegranate Vanilla, or Chocolate Orange from Babeland. We taste tested them and, really, they were great, making any sort of condom taste better.

Remember to stay clear of oil-based food products as oral sex aids when using latex condoms for protection; oil and latex don’t mix, as it can degrade the material and leave you unprotected.

The thinner the better, the condom that is, because with thin condoms you can feel more of the contours of your partners anatomy, and more importantly, more of his body’s natural heat— all part of the sensations that make oral sex pleasurable. While Lifestyles condoms were ultra thin they tasted like latex. It was Durex (yes, in full disclosure, an advertiser here on BastardLife) and Trojan who had the thinnest condoms and the ones with the least amount of taste, which meant we didn’t feel like we were sucking on a hard, bland latex balloon when we tested them. In fact, it almost felt like nothing was there at all.

How do we really feel about condoms and oral sex? It’s possible that nothing beats having a beautiful, hard, bare cock in your mouth, but these days we say use a condom if you don’t know him, or hell, even if you do.—O.P. PHOTOGRAPHY

Kate Bellm | http://bit.ly/lsZbWx

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continues… poked-holed condoms to get pregnant, people who knowingly have sex when they have STDs because they feel cheated). AND, the chances of having unprotected sex with a RANDOM PERSON (and hell, how often do you have protected sex with someone you’ve fucked before?) are much much much higher than ANY other way with ANY other type of person.

Escorts, on the other hand, are doing this as their job. Therefore, it makes much more sense and is much more important for providers to make sure they are clean AND to make sure they use protection (in case YOU aren’t clean). Believe it or not, word gets out quickly if a provider has an outbreak, gets pregnant, forgets protection, etc. They lose business almost overnight, regardless of how hot they are. As much as it may seem counterintuitive, given the negative light shed on prostitution, it is MUCH safer to have sex with a provider than it is some random drunk bitch.

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Mate Selection This is fairly self-explanatory. Most men and women can afford to be picky about their choice of sexual partners ONLY TO THE DETRIMENT of their sex lives. Meaning, if you only have sex with the kind of person that you are most attracted to, AND they have to think you are their most attractive partner as well, you end up waiting a long ass time. Therefore, I think we can all nod our heads in agreement that we have, quite often, slept with partners that we were barely attracted to, and certainly not marriage material.

With prostitutes, you can literally be as picky as you want, in whatever way you want. It’s your damn money!!! If you only want to fuck a 18-25 year old “sorority girl” with blonde hair, big tits, a tight, toned body, YOU CAN! If you only want to fuck 35+ fat ugly chicks that suck amazing dick, YOU CAN! If you only want to fuck Asians, YOU CAN! You get the point.

Marlena Bielinska | http://bit.ly/iBmLcE

WHY I DO IT

By The John | 11/19/10 | Escort Lover

http://bit.ly/jESz4F

Usually the first question I get asked on my Twitter page by new followers (twitter.com/ theescortlover) is, “Why do you see hookers?”

Well, first of all, let’s be sensitive to using “hookers” as a derogatory term. Most women that get paid to fuck dudes have no hangups about what they do, and are fine with all the various terms out there for them: hooker, sex worker, prostitute, escort, and the “professional” term to use—Provider.

Ok, with that out of the way, let’s delve into my logic: There is a huge taboo about paying women for sex. Most girls (incorrectly) believe that they are above doing that, and that “it isn’t fun if it isn’t free.” MOST people think it’s this dirty, backroom-type exchange where you pay a big ole’ pimp, then you go into the bathroom or some dingy room in the back of a hotel or bar and fuck hoes.

However, this couldn’t be further from the truth. The TRUTH is, that while degrees of “quality” do exist in the “hobby” (as it’s referred to by “hobbyists,” or the johns that see escorts, and “providers,” the escorts themselves), ranging from literally throwing money at a cracked-out street hooker for a cheap blowjob to expensive dinner dates that cost thousands of dollars, the experience of most people is somewhere happily in the middle.

Unfortunately, I need to keep this on target, but I promise my next couple blogs will be “types of hobbying (the different “quality” you can get)” and “the typical hobbying experience” (I’ll also throw in the story of my first hobbying experiences of each kind for flavor).

Thrill Seeking Finally—who doesn’t love the thrill of doing something you know you’re not supposed to?

We all snuck our hand in the cookie jar for that cookie we weren’t supposed to have. We all talked to that boy or girl that our friends had a huge crush on, even though they always liked us. We all get a little bit of a kick out of doing something that’s not natural or acceptable.

Being a hobbyist is like that. I’m not going to lie—my “real self” would never ever ever take such a big risk in much of anything (it’s partly why I am able to have so much free money to spend— smart saver/investor). But the way your heart pounds right before that door opens, when you see the person on the other side, when you begin undressing, when her mouth finally makes its way onto your cock… it’s a thrill unlike much I’ve ever experienced.

Hell, let’s not forget that, due to our laws and the social stigma associated, the cops could bust through at any time. Hell, if you’re not REALLY careful, you could be SEEING an undercover cop (it happens). All of these things, if you can brave them and go through with it anyway, make hobbying a particular thrilling… well… hobby!

So, that’s about that. I hope you enjoyed my first ever blog! I’ll be sure to add more—not sure with how much frequency I’ll be able to post, but I will ALWAYS post links to my entries on my Twitter feed. If you enjoyed, and you want to be notified when I post more for your pleasure (believe me, it’s hard (that’s what she said) to post any entries about fucking for money without somehow turning it into a pervy, sex-filled story!), follow me at twitter.com/theescortlover.

Also, PLEASE leave comments! I’d love to read your comments, questions, suggestions, and try to incorporate them into future postings!

Thanks, The John PHOTOGRAPHY

To get to the point of this blog entry, I hobby because of a few factors: Convenience Reliability SAFETY Mate selection Pure, unadulterated thrill-seeking.

Amber Gray | http://bit.ly/myg2dH

Let’s tackle each of these a bit: Convenience I am a busy guy. I average 50 hours a week at work, and that’s not including the total time I spend away from home each day. I typically leave my house at 7:30 am everyday, and rarely get home before 6:30 pm. I wake up at 6:45 am because I am NOT a morning person, and since I am a stickler for getting as much good rest as possible, I try my hardest to be at least IN BED by 11:00 pm.

Essentially, I have just over 4 hours of my day where I can do what I want. Do you know what I do most of that time? NOTHING. I’m so mentally exhausted from my job that I literally do not want to put in the effort to meet women, and almost not enough to maintain relationships with my friends and family.

Therefore, in order to maintain any semblance of a sex life, outside of the occasional fuck buddies/sugar baby arrangements I make, escorts are my most convenient option. And since I make great money and have very few expenses and obligations, I can spend frequently.

Reliability One of the things we all go through with the normal sex life is FINDING sexual partners.

Unless you are married or in a committed relationship, the chance of getting consistent sex from either a fuck buddy or multiple casual partners/one night stands is remote. I have a friend who studies adult romantic relationships for her major (and future profession) in college, and every study she’s done and/or read has concluded that single males AND females report having sex an average of once every 3 months with an average of 1.5 partners.

Escorts are always there. Individual escorts do rotate in and out (giggity) every so often, but there are always fish in that sea to choose from, when you WANT some.

Safety Ok, this may seem counterintuitive, but bear with me.

Imagine picking up the random guy or girl from a bar, taking them home, and having sex with them that night. Now imagine calling up an escort, meeting them at a hotel, and having sex with them. Who would you feel most freaked out by if the stories we always hear about happens (condom breaking, having unprotected sex, etc.)?

The TRUTH is, you should be much more wary of fucking a random from a bar. Why? They could not be clean (and how often do you get ready to get it in and then stop completely to check their most recent test results?). They could be revenge fucking (aka baby fever chicks that use

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Amber Gray | http://bit.ly/myg2dH

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By Alex Lieberman | 2/02/11 | Alex the Reluctant Escort

http://bit.ly/l613kB

I have to say, things have been going pretty good lately. My business has picked up, spring is right around the corner (along with the latest threads from Paris), and I’m about to be published in a major magazine! I was having myself a little celebratory cocktail the other day, and three thoughts entered my mind.

1. Yay, my writing career has officially started!

2. What’s the first thing I’m going to buy myself with the money I make?

3. Was it worth selling myself in order to do it?

That last one has me stumped. If I knew then what I know now, would I have made the same decision to enter this business? After all, it was this business that drove my writing—who knows if I would have ever started if I hadn’t become the courtesan that I am.

There’s a great scene in the Shawshank Redemption, (who knew that Stephen King could write something that wouldn’t have me cowering with my teddy under the blankets all night?!), where Morgan Freeman, “Red,” says if he could he could go back to his youth he’d, “wanna talk to that kid. I wanna talk some sense into him. Let him know the way things are.”

BTW, doesn’t that movie have one of the greatest “feel good” endings of all time?

I live my life in a bit of a catch 22 if you will. On the one hand I want to be a “legit” successful writer, and on the other—the more successful I become, the riskier my life as Kim becomes. If Alex and Kim were really two completely different people, and the Kim of years ago—before she decided to enter the world of escorting—wrote a letter to the Alex of today, what would Kim have asked and how would Alex answer? Would Alex try to talk some sense into Kim? Tell her the way things are now?

Dear Alex, Things have been hard lately. I’m struggling to make ends meet, and I can’t seem to find a job that I like enough, or pays me enough to keep. Bottom line, I am thinking of becoming an escort. I understand the money is really good and the person I talked to about working at her agency guarantees that she will only send me to meet established clients and I can clear anywhere from $2000 to $4000 a week. Is this true? Have you made a lot of money? It sounds like it’s safe as long as you use condoms, right? It actually sounds like fun in a lot of ways. Plus it’s sex, that’s good right? I also heard I’d get to travel and guys would actually pay me to travel with them. But I am concerned about a few things, like what if I don’t like the guys I’m with. Would I have to fuck sketchy old guys that smell?… cause… ewwww! How would I hide something like that from my family and friends? Do you, or can you, still have a “normal” relationship with men? Are you afraid of catching STDs ? What should I do?

Love, Kim Dear Kim, I understand you’re going through some troubles now, and I don’t know what your story is otherwise, but when I decided to try my hand, mouth, and cha-cha at escorting I was a very lost person, not really even knowing how lost I truly was. I too was seduced by the thought of making a lot of quick money, but never really thought about the safety or emotional consequences. While there may be weeks when you can make $4,000, they are few and far between. Beware that agency owners will make promise after promise, but don’t always deliver. If you start with an agency like I did they will work you as much as they can, never caring how that makes you feel. If you get tired, sick, or just want to call off one day be prepared to be “guilted” into coming in anyway. You will be asked to work on your period, when you’re sick, often asked to do things you don’t feel comfortable with. Having already made my decision, I’ll never regret going independent. If you decide to do this, be wary and never do anything that makes you uncomfortable. And on that note, if you think that all your clients are going to be good looking, great in bed, sexy men, think again. Those men, just like the like $4,000 weeks, are few and far between. I have made a decent amount of money, but most of it was in the beginning. You’ll see it coming in fast and furious, and it’ll make you think it will always be coming in like that, but it won’t, so save as much as you can!

Knock on wood; I’ve never contracted a sexually transmitted disease. There is always the fear of STDs when you are sexually active in and out of the world of escorting. Always, always, always use protection!

As far as dating is concerned, I don’t. I started to date one guy, but the lies I was constantly telling became too overwhelming and the relationship failed. I think the other reason it failed was because as long as I am doing this I can’t truly give myself to anyone. If I really care about them, they deserve more than what I have to offer right now. In this way, I’m not really sure if this business has changed my opinion of men, but it certainly has affected how I feel about relationships as a whole.

When I started escorting, I was heartbroken and angry, and I think that made it easy to sleep with men for money. It was almost like a defense mechanism for me, or even a way to get back at men. I think you will become jaded as you do this, but if you are smart you will also use it as opportunity to learn what it is you want rather than what you don’t. If you do decide to start escorting, be prepared to go through stages. Some days you will loathe yourself, and then there will be other days when will you will feel empowered by what you are doing to make a living.

Maybe the biggest danger in this business is the need for anonymity and the toll it takes on you. While none of my family or friends have ever found out what I do, it is a constant fear of mine. I have felt the need to share “my secret” with a couple of my closest friends because of the emotional isolation that comes with becoming and working as an escort. You’ll eventually find that you’re distancing yourself from friends, and never really making any new ones because there is a side of yourself that you will always hold back—and believe it or not people will sense that. I found myself becoming friends with other broken people, and it definitely not only blinded me from seeing how broken I was, but further prevented me from working to make myself whole again.

Whew… sounds like fun now, huh?

I have to admit, after all I’ve told you about the downsides of the business, I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t tell you that I have benefited from being an escort. Escorting has led to me finding my passion, no, not sex, a passion for writing. In writing I slowly but surely discovered that the life I was living wasn’t a life at all—that I wanted more. It also helped me to find a place for my jaded cynical opinions… they work much better on paper than coming out of my mouth in the bedroom. For better or worse, dealing with this life for the last few years has taught me a lot about life, from a perspective that very few people ever see. “Love as a business”… emotions, intimacy (faked vs real), sex… all take on a different face when money changes hands. The only constant has been me—and while it’s the same me as when I started this, it’s also not the same me. In many ways, I am worse for it, but surprisingly I can honestly say in many more ways I am better for it. I have been able to participate in experiences that have allowed me to really see and understand ego, insecurity, vulnerability, the need to be loved and wanted, sex, and betrayal on a level that most individuals will never get the opportunity to understand beyond what they read in books or are taught in classrooms.

Kim, I can’t tell you what to do. Maybe the lesson here is that the key isn’t whether or not to go into this, but to make sure you keep your eyes wide open, hold your judgment, be safe and smart, be prepared to view things differently, but never, ever, lose yourself.

Kisses, Alex After all of that, I guess the question still remains—knowing what I know now, would I make the same decision? I’d love to give you a yes or no answer but I can’t. Ask me today and the answer is yes, ask me a month from now and the answer might be no. I think we have all faced moral dilemmas in our life; unhappy marriages that cause one to look elsewhere, leaving a job to go out on your own and taking clients with you, lying to a loved one to protect them. There are simply no simple answers. I made a decision based on where I was at the time financially and, without knowing it at the time, emotionally as well. All I can tell you is I look in the mirror every day and while I’m usually complaining about my hair not doing what I want it to, I will say that I have no problems with the person looking back.

Pierre dal Corso | http://bit.ly/kxag1Z

WHAT GOES UP, MUST COME DOWN

By Melysa Schmitt| 3/07/11 | Sex, Lies, And Bacon

http://bit.ly/mer3w0

It’s sad to say but I’ve been cheated on in every one of my serious relationships. I’d always blamed the immorality on the woman involved, assuming she was just a dirty slut who knew all about me, hell bent on seducing my man just for kicks, until I had a humbling experience with a bicycle that made me sympathize with every “other woman” there ever was.

Mr. A and I met through a friend of a friend due to our mutual desire for no strings attached sex. He was exactly what I was looking for at a time in my life when a relationship was not. I didn’t want to fall in love. I wasn’t looking for another man to save me. Most of all I didn’t want to go through the usual formalities to get laid: the phone calls, the playing coy, the pretending I was interested in what someone was saying over a dinner date, when all I really wanted was for them to bend me over the table we were eating on.

What I needed was to feel the warmth of a man’s body against mine while his penis was thrusted inside me. Mr. A was willing to give me exactly what I needed.

We talked for about a week before we made plans to get together. Meeting a stranger to fuck was never something I had done before. I was a bit apprehensive about it, being a somewhat balanced person, so we decided to meet up at a bar first in lieu of going straight to a hotel room. I figured a few drinks would take the edge off anyway.

As I drove to meet him that Sunday afternoon, anxiety took over. I thought about standing him up at least a dozen times during the twenty minute drive to reach him, but ultimately decided to go through with it. My vagina rationalized the situation by telling itself he wasn’t a complete stranger since a friend of a friend, who was a stranger to me, knew him. It also thought that after a lifetime of following the rules, it was time to break them.

When I walked into the bar, I immediately spotted him. To my surprise, he was even more attractive in person than he was in the pictures he had sent me. We had a few beers and twenty minutes of awkward conversation before we finally decided to get down to business. Trying to carry on a normal exchange when we’d previously only talked in sex proved to be difficult.

We’d never really discussed payment arrangements for the hotel room we planned to fuck in, but I, being a bit old fashioned, had left my credit cards at home and brought limited cash, assuming that he’d be willing to pay as his cover charge to get into my pants. Apparently, he’d unsaid we would split the bill and didn’t bring much either. A smarter woman would’ve left right then and there, but I wasn’t smart. I was desperate for weiner.

My mind quickly began to formulate a new means for us to have sex. After two beers, an empty stomach, and an empty vagina, I came up with a trip to the local park. Because we all know I’m not above automobile sex.

We decided he’d drive since he had a larger interior, leaving my car at the restaurant. When we got there, we circled the lots for a good ten minutes in an effort to find something secluded.

Turned out 1:00 p.m. on a Sunday afternoon was peak time for baseball and soccer games, leaving the recreation center packed. While we were worried about getting caught, it still didn’t stop us, and we finally chose one of the least crowded parking areas we could find that sat adjacent to a baseball field, where, unbeknownst to us, two little league teams were duking it out for a spot in the finals.

I straddled him in the front seat, hoping to be as tactful as possible. I should’ve been more nervous than I was, but the alcohol proved to be the perfect enabler for my teenage-like indiscretion. As I pressed myself against him, I could feel he already wanted me. With no time to waste, I quickly removed his pants and slipped my panties off from underneath my skirt.

Just as I closed my eyes, and began to ride him, there was a loud crash. A foul baseball had been hit directly into his windshield.

What goes up must come down. And down his erection went.

We both looked at each other in panic, not knowing what to do, but before we could make a decision, a crowd of people came running over to assess the damage. While I managed to jump off of him, and get my underwear back on before they reached us, he wasn’t so lucky.

Most of them backed up when they saw the wayward baseball wasn’t the only hard thing inside the truck that afternoon, but one woman unrelentingly stared at us through the window, and started shouting obscenities.

“Oh fuck,” said Mr. A as he clutched his chest, looking like he was about to have a heart attack.

It wasn’t until the woman started screaming, “Whore!” as she pointed at me, and a little boy happened to shout, “Daddy?” that I realized she wasn’t just another innocent bystander.

She was his wife. And the kid who hit the cock blocking foul ball was his son.

“Seriously?” I asked, as I lifted my purse and began to beat Mr. A with it.

In that moment of shock and embarrassment, amongst the commotion and judgment from the people outside, I began to identify with every woman who had ever screwed one of my boyfriends.

So what did I do with that empathy? I used it to hop out of the truck and run as fast as I could to get away from the lynch mob that was quickly forming, understanding it was and always would be every whore for themselves.

A few parking lots away, out of breath and out of self-respect, I remembered how far the bar was and what little money I had on me to get there. I reached inside my purse for my cell phone only to find it was missing. In full on panic mode, I sat down on the curb with my head in my hands and started to cry.

After ten minutes of sobbing, I decided to pull myself together. Staying there certainly wasn’t doing me any good and the more time I wasted, the longer it was going to take me to get home. As I lifted my head up, and readied myself for the long trek back to my car, I saw a bike rental stand.

Riding a bike would certainly get me to the bar faster than my feet would, and I figured the ten dollars I had in my pocket could buy me an hour’s worth of whore powered wheels.

I walked up and asked the clerk about prices. Unfortunately for me, and what was left of my dignity, the only bike left to rent for the money I had was a recumbent one. I reluctantly took it even though I’d swore to myself I’d never be caught dead on one.

Oh how the Mely had fallen.

After one act of adultery, an escaped indecency charge, and a thirty minute bike ride to my car, I’d learned never to judge a whore by her often pantiless cover. Or the masculinity of a man by the size of his recumbent bicycle.

VIEWS EXPRESSED WITHIN THE PRINTED BLOG DO NOT NECESSARILY REFLECT THE VIEWS OF THE PUBLISHER OR THE PRINTED BLOG INC. WWW.THEPRINTEDBLOG.COM

11

FEATURED PHOTOGRAPHER — JANNIS TSIPOULANIS

CONVERSATION WITH JANNIS TSIPOULANIS

By Hannah Faye | 3/30/11 | The Printed Blog Despite the high profile of a photographer whose portfolio boasts breathtaking images of Naomi Campbell, Eva Herzigova, and Alessandra Ambrosio—Jannis Tsipoulanis likes to keep things simple.

His images are distinct, pristine, and carry the air of classic elegance that’s the definition of fashion photography. The models are clearly the focus of the shots—whether they’re in front of a stripped-down, monochromatic backdrop, or somewhere more adventurous, Jannis uses the surroundings to accentuate the beauty before him.

“Maybe it’s my way of living,” Jannis muses, “I like to be there where the real people live, to get inspired by the simplicity or other elements of the society rather than closing myself in a villa in Ibiza.”

Born in Germany to Greek parents, Jannis spent his childhood, and parts of his formal education, back and forth between the two countries. Instead of completing studies at a University, Jannis took a position working as an assistant to a photographer for Stern Magazine, learning practical experience while traveling the world.

Settled in Paris, Jannis’ photography has been published in Hommes Vogue, Marie Claire Italy, and Numéro, just to name a few. “To have a certain name in the industry means that your work is accepted. The people like what you do and you are not just an executor,” he explains. Which is important, because it allows him to express his visions. “I would say they are direct and real,” Jannis says, explaining that this reflects his character. “I think that we should not be afraid of expressing ourselves in different styles, and sometimes freezing the real life on pictures.”

Jannis Tsipoulanis’ work can be found online at www.tsipoulanis.com.

PHOTOGRAPHY

12

WWW.THEPRINTEDBLOG.COM | (312) 305-1000 | INFO@THEPRINTEDBLOG.COM | ALL CONTENT USED WITH PERMISSION FROM CONTENT OWNER

FEATURED PHOTOGRAPHER — JANNIS TSIPOULANIS

VIEWS EXPRESSED WITHIN THE PRINTED BLOG DO NOT NECESSARILY REFLECT THE VIEWS OF THE PUBLISHER OR THE PRINTED BLOG INC. WWW.THEPRINTEDBLOG.COM

13

CULTURE

HELL YEAH, I REMEMBER…

By Tara Dublin | 8/05/09 | Tara Dublin Online

http://bit.ly/isj6Nc

Eight years ago today, I had a life-altering experience.

No, I didn’t find God or see the light or anything that lame. But I did walk into a place one person, and left it feeling as though I’d completely changed.

But let’s backtrack, because you need to know who I was eight years ago. I was a stay-at-home mom to then 2-year-old Jack. We’d be living out here in Vancouver, Washington, for about 5 months, and while I loved the scenic beauty and pretty much everything about Portland, I still felt isolated and alone. I didn’t have any really close friends here yet, and being home with even the world’s most perfect child is lonely at times. I had thought this move would change things; it had been the same back in Albany, Georgia, where we’d moved from. A small town where they were excited by the opening of a new Circuit City, Albany was good to us in many ways, but was ultimately not the right place for us.

While living in Albany as a new mom, I discovered the lure of the internet postboard, where you could make friends from all over the world who shared a similar interest. Babies sleep a lot, and you gotta pass the time somehow. In my case, the similar interest was the Foo Fighters. I developed an insane crush on Dave Grohl. And by insane, I mean, the kind of crush a teenage girl gets. I didn’t realize it at the time, but looking back it’s so crystal clear: I was lonely and bored, and he was hot and exciting, and he became the go-to fantasy guy. Some women do this with Brad Pitt or George Clooney. People get crushes on celebrities all the time. So Dave was my celebrity crush, for years.

But I also made real friends on the Foo board; people I’m still in daily contact with (hi, you guys!). I also made some enemies, not fully understanding at that time the power of the internet, and the way things can get misconstrued when you only have the written word to explain yourself.

By the summer of 2001, my marriage was on shaky ground and other than my sweet darling little Jack, there wasn’t much in my life making me happy. So when there was a post on the Foo board announcing a special show in L.A. JUST for postboard members, I flipped. You had to enter to win a spot, and I did, not thinking I’d get in. I mean, at the time there had to be at least 30,000 people registered on the site, with hundreds of active members posting daily. But when the admins posted the winners’ names, mine was among the first. I was elated and felt energized for the first time in a very long time.

Hasty arrangements were made. My husband had to work that weekend, but friends agreed to watch Jack. I made plans to stay with my then-friend, Amy, and my friends Jill and Angela would meet me at the airport in L.A. In the days leading up to the show, there was a lot of chatter on the boards. We posted our pictures, so we’d recognize each other at the show.

I flew to L.A. and was met at my gate by Angela and Jill. Amy picked us up and we ate at Canter’s on Fairfax. It was great to be with these other cool chicks, who loved this band as much as I did, and we were all beyond excited.

The next day, August 5, 2001, Amy and I headed for the Troubadour to wait on line. We were among the first there. We stood in line in the hot sun all day to get wristbands that would let us into the show. Once we got those, we went back to the end of the line to make sure we were first to get in. Everyone knew this would be my first Foo show, and I had every intention of being up front. At one point, Amy needed to go to the bathroom and a friend who was staying at a motel across the street offered their room to her. She made me go with her (actually, the A/C felt nice after a day spent in the August sun), and when we got back, everyone was freaking because Nate and Dave had just gone in through the front door. “Your stupid bladder made me miss Dave!” I mocked-yelled at Amy. Finally, we went in. The Troubadour in L.A. is a legendary rock venue. There’s no barrier between the crowd and the stage, which is fairly low. My friends and I headed for the center of the stage. I was right in front of the microphone, just inches from me. “Dave’s going to lean over and SWEAT on you!” Amy said. “And the problem with that is…?” She was on one side of me, Maria on the other. Kevin, a legend among Foo fans (he’s got two tatts of Dave) and a big dude, was right behind me and promised to protect me from the crowd.

The lights dimmed, the crowd swelled, and the opening band took the stage: The Atomic Punks, a Van Halen cover band circa the David Lee Roth era. They dressed the part, sounded identical to the original, and they totally rocked. At one point, Chad Smith from the Red Hot Chili Peppers took over on the drums. “Let’s see…” the faux-Roth said, “Do we have any OTHER friends who want to join us?” The crowd screamed and there in front of us were Taylor Hawkins and Dave Grohl. I’d actually seen Taylor before the show, behind the venue, looking thin and tired (this is called foreshadowing). But this was the first time I’d ever seen Dave live, and he was right in front of me, sharing the mic while Taylor and Chad drummed together. The place was going nuts. And Dave looked hotter than ever: tight white t-shirt, black jeans, goatee and short hair (my preferred Dave hair, which had its own topic on the Foo board. Yes, people discuss his hair like other people discuss the situation in Darfur). It was intense.

The Atomic Punks finished their set and there was a brief break while the Foo’s roadies set up their gear. The Foo Fighters crew are nearly as famous as the guys in the band. The die-hards all know Joe Beebe and Sean Cox, as well as all the others. Finally, finally, finally, the lights went down and all four of the Foo Fighters walked out on stage.

“What’s up, weirdos?” Dave greeted us. The cheers were the loudest I’d ever heard. Dave would occasionally post on the board, always calling the posters “weirdos” in an affectionate way.

We suspected he read some of the threads, because he would occasionally respond (like when there was a rumor he’d hooked up with Christina Aguilera).

The band immediately launched into “Monkey Wrench.” I was the happiest I’d been in a very long time. I was with my friends, I was seeing my favorite band for the very first time in this cool little venue, they sounded absolutely amazing, and the hottest man alive was singing his ass off right in front of me. I mean, come on.

The song ended and Dave took a swig of beer. This is where time stands still, where the plates shift, where everything changes. I am gazing up at him, he is at the mic, and he looks at me. He smiles. He says, TO ME, into the mic for everyone in this tiny packed room to hear: “I know who you are!”

The word stunned doesn’t begin to describe it. Paralyzed, maybe. What did he just say?

I turned to Maria: “What did he just say?”

“He said he knows who you are!”

I turned to Amy: “What did he just say?”

“He said he knows who you are!”

Dave was watching this exchange with a total shit-eating grin on his face, knowing that he was totally freaking me out. I looked at him. He smiled again. And from then on, like every girl’s rock and roll fantasy, he sang to me. He flirted with me. He smiled at me a lot. And then, they played a new song they were working on, with the title “Gun Beside My Bed.” Once the song ended, Dave talked about it becoming a huge hit. And then we decided to yell out how great his hair looked, and he said, “Thanks a lot, Tara, that’s really nice.” Dave Grohl SAID.MY.NAME. Holy fucking shit.

Here’s the mp3 of that whole thing, really and for true: Gun Beside My Bed By the way, the girl yelling out “TRL!” ? Me. Yep. (Side note: It eventually became a track on “One By One” called “Overdrive;” the die-hard fans prefer this raw original to the finished song).

So after that, after he said my name, I can’t really remember a whole lot. I do know at one point he was holding on to the mic stand, leaning way over, his face close to mine, and he said, “Hey, Tara,” in a breathy voice that to my ears sounded more intimate than anything my husband had said to me in years.

When the show was over, I felt physically and emotionally exhausted. I’d had very little sleep on Amy’s very uncomfortable couch; I’d been standing all day; I’d just experienced a hot and sweaty rock show, and oh, one of the world’s biggest rock stars knows my face and my name.

14

continues…

I’d gone with the hope of maybe meeting Dave outside the venue or something, but now I was determined to talk to him. How did he know me? He must have seen me on the board, but why me? What the fuck?

Meanwhile, Jill and Angela were at the bar, and had made the acquaintance of Jimmy Chamberlain of the Smashing Pumpkins. He bought them shots and then asked them if they wanted to go backstage. The backstage at the Troub is this tiny room above the crowd. It has windows so you can watch the show from there, and before they’d gone on we’d caught glimpses of Dave and Taylor up there with Chad Smith. I saw them heading up there and frankly, I just tagged along. The security guy said to Jimmy, “All these girls with you?” Jimmy looked back and said yes. We were allowed into the small, smoky room. And standing alone against the wall, sipping from a can of Coors Light, was Dave Grohl.

I decided to go balls-to-the-wall and greeted him like a long-lost friend. I went over to him, spread my arms and said, “Hey, Dave!” A huge smile appeared on his face and he pulled me into his arms. “Tara!” he said, “it’s sooo good to finally meet you!” The hug lasted a nice long time.

He’d changed into a shirt that said “I <3 The Soaps!” What a dork. I was so in love with him.

“Uhh… I think I should be saying that to YOU!” I said. “How do you know who I am?”

“I’m smart,” he replied. “I know everything.”

“Come on…” I began, but we were interrupted. Everyone wants a piece of The Grohl, and as many times as we tried to have an actual conversation, someone would come over and want a picture, or an autograph, or something else. Someone offered him a joint and he said, “No thanks, man… I’m a clean teen!”

Amy wanted to leave way too soon, unfortunately. I got a picture with Dave, many hugs, and as we said goodbye, he gave me a quick kiss on the mouth. The power of speech then left me.

And my crush on Dave ramped up even more. I saw more shows and got more chances to talk with him, but that’s not what this entry is about. Maybe I’ll share the Queens of the Stone Age story sometime soon.

But here’s the point of this whole thing: by singling me out, for whatever his reasons were, Dave changed the way I saw myself. Prior to that night, I had no self-esteem, no clear identity of my own other than wife and mother, still feeling very much like a little girl pretending to be a grownup despite the fact that I was 32 years old. But Dave Grohl saw something in me that he liked, so there must be something special about me. I wondered what it was: had he read my posts and then seen my picture and decided I was cute? Was it the other way around, a cute pic and then he read my posts? He had to know that I was pretty blatant about my crush on him when posting, but so was every other female on that postboard. So why me?

At this point, it doesn’t matter why me. What matters is that it was me. From that point on, I had this one little thing that set me apart from other people. Plenty of music fans get to meet their idols, but my story is pretty unique. I mean, grabbing girls out of the audience is nothing new to rock stars, but how many of them know the girl’s name ahead of time, and remember her every time they see her after that? This was different, this was something that is all mine, and I’ll always have a special place in my heart for The Grohl. Always.

Thanks, Dave.

PHOTOGRAPHY

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FALSE NOSTALGIA: HOW VH1 RUINED THE TASTE OF

PHOTOGRAPHY

A GENERATION

By Josh Kurp | 12/17/10 | twitter.com/joshkurp

http://bit.ly/mB7Djk

In the period between when VH1 stopped airing music videos but before they became the home for such quality infotainment as “Glam God with Vivica A. Fox” and “Celebrity Fit Club,” they were best-known for two series: “Behind the Music” and “I Love the 80s,” and that show’s light-history spawn.

On December 16, 2002, VH1 aired the first segment: “I Love 1980.” This American interpretation of the BBC show (which itself started with “I Love the 70s”), had segments on Airplane!, The Empire Strikes Back (isn’t it weird that those two films came out in the same year?), “Rapper’s Delight,” and Gloria Vanderbilt jeans, among other pop culture semi-relics. There were also recurring segments where celebrities like Bret Michaels and Lionel Richie would present “Babes” and “Makeout Songs” of each year. It was genius and a huge hit for a network desperate for one.

Repeats of the 80s series aired constantly. Soon they backtracked to the 70s, then the 80s struck back, then the 90s came, and so on. It was also a huge hit in my household, particularly during those dreaded post-dinner hours when it wasn’t baseball season and “Seinfeld” wasn’t on.

Before long, I was picking up factoids I wouldn’t have otherwise known about “Square Pegs” and Rob Lowe’s sex tape, thanks to the not-at-all prepared, supposedly off-the-cuff remarks made

by Hal Sparks, Michael Ian Black, Third Eye Blind’s Stephan Jenkins, that blonde woman with the glasses and other semi-celebrities.

Wikipedia was founded in 2001, but only grew to two million articles by 2007, so, VH1, with both “I Love the Whatevers” and “Behind the Music,” served in its stead. Those shows gave just enough information to its viewers that they could sound relatively intelligent in talking about pop culture without actually having seen, listened to or owned said culture product, particularly when it was new.

Which leads us to this weekend’s (highly anticipated!) release of the sequel to Tron. The original 1982 film made only $33 million in box office revenue during its initial run, a number that Porky’s, released in the same year, would best in about three-and-a-half weeks. It is therefore necessarily true that most people who talk about and who are in the intended audience of the Tron sequel haven’t actually seen the original, although among those, most would say it’s a mediocre film with outdated technology, and how it was a bust for Disney (which, granted, they’d be correct in stating). And it’s not like Tron is on the level of 8 ½; it’s not like anyone feels the need to go back and watch it. Who would be ashamed of himself for not seeing a mediocre film? But because all this information is around us, especially on the sort of channels where Katy Perry is currently the number one artist on their Top 20 countdown, it seems suggested that you should.

I was one of those people who hadn’t seen Tron until about five months ago. Even before watching the film, I had an opinion of it, with said opinion based somewhat on that “Simpsons” scene where Homer asks if anyone’s seen Tron and everyone replies no, but more so because of series like “I Love the TK Decade.”

The clip’s not on YouTube, but I have a feeling the Tron segment of “I Love the 80s” went something like: clip of the film, commentator describing the plot, more clips of the film, another commenter making fun of the Lightbike scene, visual evidence of what the commenter is talking about, then some joke about the film in general, or at least an ironic boast about its awesomeness.

Rewatching “I Love the TKs,” there’s something about them that I didn’t catch when I was younger: the talking heads aren’t so much telling jokes as they are explaining the film/show/ album/whatever, and then either singing or quoting from the material. There are virtually no jokes; the show is simply for people who say, “Hey, I remember that!” This is a value instilled in the production: during the interviews, for which comedians and the other randoms are booked back to back, the producers ask the talking heads to narrate and explain more than they ask them to riff.

I didn’t remember Tron, because I’d never seen it. But I felt like I did. Likewise, I spoke about ‘Til Tuesday as if I had heard “Voices Carry” constantly on the radio in 1985, which I did not. My friends do the same thing, for things for which they weren’t actually alive—and it’s not like we’re talking about the Beatles here, we’re talking about MTV VJs and Pound Puppies. Our memories of things we couldn’t possibly remember were brought to us by VH1, and they’ve stuck.

That’s why a remake of Clash of the Titans exist, and why we’ll soon be (not) watching remakes of Dune and Conan and Escape from New York in our local theaters. (And Flash Gordon. And Highlander. And Arthur. And Barbarella. And Fletch. And Videodrome. And The Neverending Story.

And Westworld. And even Porky’s.) False nostalgia is easy to comprehend, and it’s an easy desire for people to capitalize on. Just because we know something doesn’t mean we’ll want to see it—or so we’d like to believe. The Karate Kid, The A-Team and The Expendables made $350 million, $176 million and $266 million at the box office this year. Both The A-Team and Karate Kid were featured on “I Love the 80s,” as were vehicles for many of the actors that appeared in Stallone’s odd nostalgia-and-steroids fest.

VH1 was but the forefather: once we were trained, Google and Wikipedia and YouTube largely replaced it as a tool for the false nostalgia impulse. But VH1 was the first instance of being told that something in the near-past of pop culture was cool, or at least delightfully campy, and presented these relics in such a way that it was easy to quote and talk about with your friends, instead of actually discussing why Back to the Future was actually an important film. Everything became a giant in-joke that everyone was supposed to get.

Likewise, “Behind the Music” (begun in 1997) and “Pop-Up Video” (1996 to 2002): one gave an outline of an artist’s career in an hour or an hour-and-a-half and the other revealed notparticularly-meaningful-yet-oddly-compelling factoids about a particular artist and their song and music video. What was “Pop-Up Video” but a bit of Wikipedia in your YouTube, but on your TV? False nostalgia means that The A-Team was a success at $176 million, but it also means false memory. It’s having sensations and ideas incepted in your brain that were never even yours.

PHOTOGRAPHY

Anoush Abrar and Aimée Hoving | http://bit.ly/lFhZLP

Mike Ruiz | http://bit.ly/ihb5QU

continues…

Millions of bored teens and tweens were told by their older, hipper peers that something was cool—but with no context, no experience, no value, no discernment, and the coolness was marked with irony. In the ironic embrace of VH1’s chat-bots, what was actually really quite bad was considered in the retelling to be cool. The recent past became nearer, even as it became flatter and context-free. A whole generation grew up with an utterly false nostalgia for culture products it had never consumed—and nobody even remembered that they hadn’t.

::I

YOU::

By Beverly Kim | 9/18/10 | Je m’en Fous

http://bit.ly/ihTpof

… that’s hipster for love.

I can’t believe I haven’t written about this yet, especially with how strongly annoyed I am by the mere subculture existing. Also, I apologize in advance to any hipsters reading this that my post is not in Helvetica and is in fact… Verdana. When the hipster movement started it was this weird mass of indie meets asshole meets… I don’t even fucking know. The word “hipster” was originally meant to talk about fashion conscientious 20-something year olds [which at the beginning I was quite fond of] but has fallen down the evolutionary ladder into skinny youths wearing tired clothing and spending loads of cash to look as poor as possible.

Why is it so easy to hate the hipster? Well first—they’re just ridiculous. The entire hipster culture is reminiscent of my freshman year in high school where the cliques you fell into determined everything about you. If you decided to be Goth—you had to be Goth 100%. There’s no half-assing your black eyeliner, black nail polish, your baggy Tripp pants or your Slipknot shirt you bought from a Hot Topic in the suburbs. Just like those cliché stereotypes of goths, preps, jocks, punk kids, nerds, etc… “Hipster” is perhaps the only mega social stereotype to exist outside of high school along with “Bros.”

And it’s pretty pathetic.

Hipsters claim nonconformity and originality, but the lot is entirely composed of failed art students that all do the same things but are all, ironically at the same time, “the first to do it.”

All you girls with your flannel shirts and your unwashed but strategically placed nests of hair, wearing over-sized rimmed glasses even though you have 20/20 vision claim, “I did ____ before ____ was cool.” All the man hipsters smoke their American Spirits while drinking cases and cases of PBRs, wearing their trendy frayed scarf that meekly covers the greasy chest hair peeking out of their loose fitting V-necks, all while stroking their weird mustaches that have me doing a double take because I’m almost certain I saw one, or two—fuck, I saw all of them on NBC’s “To Catch a Predator” with Chris Hansen.

It’s so incredibly easy to hate the hipster due to the sheer ignorance of the hipster mentality.

I’ve never seen such a mass of people in such a widely known stereotype refuse to believe that they’re a stereotype and fight for the right to say that they started it all. Maybe I would hate them less if they admitted that they just enjoyed the culture and wanted to breed in it. Because if “I don’t do it because it’s the ‘Hipster Thing,’ but because I genuinely enjoy doing those things” was the real excuse… than where the fuck have I been? Sure, I’ll drink this shitty Pabst and go to Urban Outfitters to buy overpriced, mass produced vintage clothing to make myself look like I raided the grandma’s basket at The Salvation Army. Hell, I’ll take up smoking, but only if it’s American Spirits… cause you know, even though I’ve never done it before, it’s what I like doing. I’ll get a tattoo of a triangle on my wrist because it hasn’t been done before and none of y’all other hipsters are as dedicated to being a part of this culture and stereotype that “doesn’t exist” as I am. Shoot me now if the sum of my persona, look, and existence can be identified with one word that is “hipster” [or anything else for that matter].

Hipsters, do yourself a favor and stop pretending you’re not a hipster and just admit it. Or just stop feeding into the dickhead machine and maybe… grow up a little? It’s a sad culture of blindly ignorant, “I’m better than you cause I dress poorer than you” kids that act pretentious and mighty in their incestuous circles, but are too passive-aggressive to say anything in the face of truth. They ride their skinny bikes with woven baskets for the environment, but leave cigarette butts all over trendy street corners, and are vegan but don’t even know why. So fuck the hipsters.

I’ll enjoy my Bacardi over Pabst. I’ll keep my lungs smoke free and my hair neatly combed and showered. I’ll keep putting contacts in my eyes and doing things the way I like to do them: the efficient, comfortable way. If you want to go out of your way to feign apathy saying “I don’t care” [but deep down you do, cause deep down is underground], than stay out of my headlights cause you’re not that cool. Not that artsy. And so much easier to ridicule than any other failed group of self-hating “fashionistas” I’ve ever met.

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FAKE SHORE DRIVE – FEATURED MUSIC BLOG

PHOTOGRAPHY

AN INTERVIEW WITH FAKE SHORE DRIVE

By Hannah Faye | 4/08/11 | The Printed Blog No one knows Chicago’s hip-hop scene better than Andrew Barber. The founder of Fake Shore Drive set up shop in 2007 without any industry connections or previous writing experience, and managed to launch the first, solid platform for introducing raw talent to the masses.

It didn’t take very long for people to start considering Barber an authority on the subject— he was invited to help program the MTV Jams network for “Chicago Day,” Vibe and XXL listed FSD as one of the best blogs in the country. Oh, and Twista bought him a birthday cake.

But Barber has his sights set even higher. “I’d really like to see somebody from Chicago break through on a national scale,” he explains, “somebody new, somebody from the Fake Shore Drive era.” The city has gained some attention in recent years due to breakout stars like Kanye West, Lupe Fiasco, Twista, and Common, and more recently, some solid buzz from the up-starts like the L.E.P. Bogus Boys and the Cool Kids, but Chicago lacks a strong, overall movement. “We’ve had pockets of success,” Barber states, “but I don’t think people have ever looked at this region as the trendsetters—the artists who dictate popular music, or control the radio.”

Fake Shore Drive aims to change that. Barber and his right hand man Ty Kidd keep an eye on the artists getting buzz around the city, as well as offer the option for amateurs to upload their music directly to the site. A tip for those trying to get attention: keep it professional.

“People think it’s easiest going in your mom’s basement, recording a song on your laptop, taking a cell phone picture of yourself in a mirror, and sending it to me thinking it’s going to go up [on the site] automatically,” Barber laughs. He adds, “If you really know your history, respect the craft, and care enough about your image and your career, you’ll go to a studio and get something professionally recorded, have it mixed, and present it like an actual single.”

Respect is hip-hop’s buzzword. It takes a long time to earn it, but proving yourself comes with advantages. Always conscientious of his brand, Barber worked his way from the ground up, gathering sources and securing connections. “It’s more than having a relationship with the artists, you also have to think about all the different people that fit into the equation of the hiphop circle,” Barber confides. “There’s DJs, producers, promoters, industry insiders, so it’s all about making all these people happy and working with them.”

Finding the balance pays off—Barber and Fake Shore Drive have received tracks to premiere from Lupe Fiasco, exclusives from Common, and early leaks about the Jay-Z and Kanye West collaboration, “Watch the Throne,” via those carefully cultivated relationships.

For better or for worse, the dynamic of the music industry is still changing with the boom of social media sites and digital content, and it’s no use fighting it. “You’ve got to survive—adapt or die,” Barber states, “and that’s pretty much what it’s about now.”

Barber is always thinking of ways to keep Fake Shore Drive entertaining and engaging, including the classic, but always popular mixtape. “I wanted to bring it back to the era where you give it to a DJ, he picks the songs and you just say, ‘mix it how you want, blend it however, add a couple here and a couple there,’ and then see what comes up,” Barber recounts. “We did a couple of those and people loved it. Because there’s no track listing, you can’t just skip to the next song, you have to play it straight through.”

So what’s next? “I love music, I like to write about music, I like to listen to music, so I just hope people keep enjoying it and coming to the site. I’m just thankful for everything—it’s been a cool experience.” He adds, “I don’t know how to gauge my success because I’m always hungry, I always want more.”

PHOTOGRAPHY

Kate Bellm | http://bit.ly/lsZbWx

Alexey Sorokin | http://bit.ly/kWxSbu LIFESTYLE

UPDATED: SXSW… SORT OF.

By The Bloggess | 3/21/11 | The Bloggess

http://bit.ly/j6Sxr9

The SXSW festival is an hour from my house, but I never go to it because crowds scare the shit out of me, and also because it’s super expensive and I don’t have enough xanax and/or facial hair to fit in there, but last week I got invited to some kind of SXSW civility luncheon thingie and I had to go because 1) it was being thrown by some of my best friends and 2) someone invited me to a GODDAM CIVILITY LUNCHEON, y’all. How could I not go?

I usually write down shit as it happens and quickly write a post that day so I don’t forget what my notes meant, but then Victor decided to shatter his arm and I got distracted and now I just have a bizarre bunch of notes that are confusing even to me. And now I’m going to share them with you. Because then you’ll know what it’s like in my head, and it will make you feel better about yourself by comparison.

Bizarre notes I wrote to myself while getting mildly sloshed at a brunch designed to teach me about “civility & mobile etiquette:” *Awesome idea for an invention: Tin cup (worn on a piece of twine around your neck). You could use it for olive pits, used-toothpicks and for panhandling. A tin cup on twine is the new waterproof pocket. That would be our slogan. *I could probably save a lot of time if I just made a t-shirt that says, “I’m sorry for disappointing you.” *I’m at civility party designed to teach me about not using Twitter in public. I’m the only person tweeting right now. Awesome. *I’m* the asshole at the bar. Except this isn’t even a bar. My god, I suck at this. *I just spent 10 minutes convincing Helen Jane that James Franco’s severed arm probably tastes like buffalo. Made a really convincing argument of it and I’m fairly sure she was impressed.

Then some new chick came over and asked what we were talking about, and I was all “James Franco’s arm tastes of buffalo,” but I wasn’t sober enough to remember my reasoning, so I just left it at that, and the new chick looked vaguely frightened and wandered off. This is why context is important. *This is a civility luncheon about the rudeness of using mobile phones in public, and it has a hashtag assigned to it. #deeplyconfused *Overheard: “Do you ever have to please your man while texting?” And suddenly this shit just got interesting. *Overheard: “Ringworm is going to happen, but if your baby gets pinworms you just walk away. Start fresh with a new baby, I say.” (Disclaimer: Does it count as “overheard” if you’re overhearing yourself say it to other people? How about if you’re only saying it to see how eavesdroppers will react? I say yes to both.) *Overheard: “This would make a great heroin spoon. Right? Do they sell these here? Someone find me a waiter.” (Again, see disclaimer above.) *Me at our table: “Ooh! Pistachios!” *Me, seconds later: “Oh. Those are not pistachios. Those are olive pits. No one eat those.” *Me, two drinks later: “Ooh! Pistachios!” *Repeat* Seriously. They *totally* looked like pistachios. *Things I learned: SXSW is pretty cool if you don’t actually get anywhere near SXSW. Pistachios aren’t supposed to be damp. I shouldn’t even be allowed to have a phone and/or leave my house.

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ALBUM REVIEW: RADIOHEAD – THE KING OF LIMBS

By Chris Barth | 3/29/11 | Pretty Much Amazing

http://bit.ly/mF1U1Z

How do you review a Radiohead album? There’s a sense of insignificance in trying to talk about this band, a sense of shouting to be heard amidst a chorus of fans and critics. Swirling conspiracy theories, hubbub about release method, endless speculation. This is a band that people want to talk about. More than any other artist, Radiohead seems to inspire listeners to contemplate what it all means rather than just how it sounds. Whoa dude.

In some ways, Radiohead cultivated that urge to philosophize with the release of King of Limbs. By announcing the album just a few days before it was available, avoiding leaks, and then releasing the record a day early, they built a community around the first listen, a buzz hardly felt since the days of lining up at a record store to buy an album the day it dropped. In another way, though, Radiohead didn’t have a choice; no matter how they released King of Limbs, it would have been endlessly discussed by critics. After releasing In Rainbows in a pay-what-you-want format, anything else would seem like a statement—a retreat to old practices or a push toward new ones.

Radiohead is in a unique position where everything they do is a media event, and it’s not their fault. Well, it’s not completely their fault, at least. They did make some public statements about moving away from LPs that have led to rampant speculation—fueled by, for example, “TKOL1” confirmation codes, the album’s brevity, the re-naming of final track “Mouse Bird Dog” to “Separator,” and that song’s lyric, “If you think this is over, then you’re wrong”—that this is just Radiohead’s first volley in 2011. And maybe it is. Maybe they’ll release The Prince of Branches next week and there will be a whole new swirl of exhilaration and backlash. But that’s just flying pigs and wishery. The fact of the matter is that Radiohead released a new album last week, and it’s pretty damn great.

In many ways, King of Limbs is a study in two parts—a skittering, free jazz first half followed by a ballad-based, reverb-soaked finish. The album’s first single, “Lotus Flower,” is the fulcrum around which the album pivots, the link between the melodic trio that closes the album and the headier quartet that precedes it. But to view the album as separate parts is unfair. Instead, I think it functions best as a progression, from the electronic melee of its genesis to the swirling guitars of its closing lines. Because what Radiohead has done so successfully on King of Limbs is incorporate the soundscapes of modern electronic and post-dubstep music in a warmer, more organic way. Where artists like Burial, James Blake, and Flying Lotus are often distant and cold in their production of such sound, King of Limbs sounds tantalizingly close.

This is heady music, no doubt about it, and certainly not jammed with sing-along choruses, or even many definitive hooks and melodies to latch on to. If there is any album that King of Limbs draws comparison to, it is Thom Yorke’s blip-heavy solo album, The Eraser. The fact that many of these tunes were premiered by Thom Yorke, either solo or with his side project band Atoms For Peace, shows he played as integral a role as ever in the production and creation of these songs. But make no mistake—this album is as layered as nearly any of Radiohead’s past efforts, albeit to often simpler effect. The band isn’t missing here, they’re just so closely tied together as to render them nearly indistinguishable as separate parts.

It’s in Phil Selway’s drums that the difference is most dramatically heard. His ticks and taps are cut up and reworked, noticeably ricocheting around on “Bloom” and the quasi-instrumental fourth track “Feral.” Unless Selway has grown a third and fourth arm, it seems that his drumming has been chopped to give the tracks a sort of spastic, clattering feel. Radiohead has flipped the paradigm; on the aforementioned “Feral,” it is the guitars and vocals that keep the pulse of the song, rather than the chattering drums, which often stretch towards spiraling out of control. That balance—between rhythm and melody, between control and chaos—is what lies at the root of King of Limbs. The melodies are circular rather than linear, the drums form rather than function.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise that Radiohead is inching closer to the popular music avant-garde and further from the mainstream. Yorke chose Flying Lotus to open his shows with Atoms For Peace, and he contributed vocals to a track on FlyLo’s Cosmogramma. But this isn’t a completely drastic shift for the band, either. It’s more a toe or two dipped into a new pool.

King of Limbs is purportedly named for a thousand year old oak tree found in the Savernake Forest, not far from where Radiohead has recorded in the past. Throughout the album, the band seems to puzzle over where their music resides in this natural world, as if inspired by the massive tree to contemplate their own significance. At the end of “Codex,” a twisting dial transforms into chirping birds before shifting back to become the opening of “Give Up The Ghost.” The album’s entirety traces a similar line, toeing the line between electronic and real, while wondering if they are really different things.

In some ways, it seems that In Rainbows may have given the band a shove in this direction; after a grueling recording marathon for that album, the band seemed ready for a break, both from the studio and from each other. Selway has noted the difference in recording process this time around, saying at one point that King of Limbs recording had “been quite the opposite” of In Rainbows’ predominantly live recording process. The idea of assembling a cohesive album from distinct parts is an intriguing enigma.

Forgive me for pushing a metaphor, but it’s easier for me to envision this album like the King of Limbs itself, whose sprawling boughs extend both horizontally and vertically from its impossibly giant trunk. There are no songs on King of Limbs that sounds like anything other than Radiohead—the band hasn’t lost its muchness. But from the center of its established sound, these songs unroll like feelers, connected but experimental, resulting in a record that is, paradoxically, cohesively disconnected. It doesn’t have the technical purpose of OK Computer, or the ideological vigor of Hail To The Thief, but it manages to sound familiar and new simultaneously. King of Limbs finds one of the greatest bands we have ever known pushing their sound into a new sphere, remaining relevant at the risk of alienating some fans, rather than slipping slowly into the comfortable fog of repetition and compromise.

The lyrics on King of Limbs seem to acknowledge some of the band’s wavering exploration.

On “Morning Mr. Magpie,” Yorke claims that the title character has “stolen all the magic/took my melody.” On “Bloom,” the album’s opener, Yorke announces, “I’m moving out of orbit.”

“Lotus Flower” is unapologetic—“do what we want” and “slowly we unfold.” But this is not Radiohead abandoning pleasant music in favor of abrasive tone studies. This record is imminently relistenable; the initially simple sound opens up to reveal smaller and smaller dolls inside—the rainstorm snaps of “Bloom,” the disintegrating loops of “Give Up The Ghost,” halted introductory swell of “Codex.”

There are those who have said that King of Limbs is the sort of album that would garner little attention if it were produced by another band. First off, I fundamentally disagree with that assertion; now, more than ever, we as music listeners are armed to the teeth with tools to discover great music, even when it’s hidden in albums that don’t fit on the radio. But even if that cynical proposition is true, isn’t that exactly the point? Again and again, since the days of “Creep,” Radiohead has pushed its audience away from comfort zones and familiarity, without worrying about commercial success or mainstream appeal. The result? A legion of unwavering fans. If any band has earned the right to release an album like King of Limbs (with little fanfare, I might add) it’s this one. I’m glad they did. When the brief album comes to a close, there’s not a second’s hesitation before I hit play again.

Ausra Osipaviciute | http://bit.ly/ku71AS

MY THOUGHTS ON LUPE FIASCO’S HOUSE OF BLUES CONCERT

By Andrew Barber | 3/28/11 | Fake Shore Drive

http://bit.ly/jehysz

I’ve had numerous people contact me about Lupe Fiasco’s Lasers show/event/celebration at the House of Blues this past weekend. Many wanted my take on the situation, some clarity, an explanation (as if I was Lupe’s publicist); others even wanted to throw me under the bus as if I was some sort of swindler involved in taking fans money. I moved over the weekend, and Comcast flubbed my cable/internet hook up, so I had no access to write something until now. However, at this point I’m sure you’ve seen Lupe’s tweets, read the reviews and heard the chatter—the show was pretty much a mess.

See, no matter the show, no matter the artist, no matter the location, these types of situations happen more than you’d think. And it’s not just a hip-hop thing—this happens all the time for pop artists, actors and celebrity DJs. An artist’s name and likeness are promoted on the flyer, and the ticket price and location are listed. Most would just assume that a Lupe Fiasco event at the House of Blues would mean concert, but if you looked at the flyer, you’d notice it only said “celebration,” not “concert.” It’s all about reading between the lines and understanding promoter jargon. You’ll also notice that Live Nation wasn’t at all mentioned in the promotions, which means that a third party came in to rent out the House of Blues from Live Nation (as they own the venue), meaning it was a “private” event, and the “renter” can do as they please. There’s also a difference between a “performance” fee and an “appearance” fee for artists, as the “appearance” fee pretty much entails the artist just showing up to make face, hanging out for the required amount of time, and then splitting. No performances required. This is basically the same thing as The Situation from Jersey Shore showing up at Enclave and partying for an hour and then dipping.

You don’t get to actually party with him, you get to pay to watch him party like he’s some sort of zoo animal. You may remember this happened a few months ago with Nicki Minaj at Adrianna’s, and the crowd threw a stink about it, believing Nikki was to perform, not just do a walk through.

Feelings get hurt, fans get pissed.

If you’ve attended music-related events in Chicago over the years, I’m sure you’ve fallen victim to this once or twice. Yes, you may feel burned, but this is nothing new. It sucks for those who spent their hard earned $40 for a ticket (even worse for those who spent $200+ for VIP passes), and I feel like most of the fans (late teens, early twenties) in attendance had never experienced anything like this, so they were completely taken off guard and in the dark.

This type of situation puts Lupe in a weird position, as he doesn’t want to let his fans down, but also doesn’t want the promoters to get over on him by only paying him for an appearance, but getting a full blown concert out of him. What would you do? Would you perform a full set for your fans that waited hours to catch a glimpse of you, or would you take a stand for yourself and leave? I’ve never been in that position, nor do I know ALL of the facts, so I don’t know. Either way, I think there should be a better disclaimer for events such as these that could possibly confuse the general public. If you don’t know, now you know.

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TOP 20 TWEETS

By Brandon Mendelson | Poorly Thought Out Grammatical Holocausts http://tinpt.tumblr.com/ “I’ll be back. I need to go deliver some value and I think we’re out of toilet paper.” @BJMendelson Feb 19th “Get the department of “Who Gives A Fuck?” on the line. Boy do I got a story for them!” @BJMendelson Feb 15th “I can hear my neighbor flush his toilet. Whenever he does, I like to shout, “YEAH BOYEEEE!” He doesn’t find it as funny as I do.” @BJMendelson Feb 14th “Everyone is retarded until proven otherwise.” @BJMendelson Jan 3rd “There’s something kind of hilarious about people spouting off on human rights violations while using Apple products.” Look at these people in Egypt. We must help them!” “What about the Chinese workers who make your iPhone?” “FUCK THOSE PEOPLE!” @BJMendelson Feb 1st “The Patriot Act is set to expire. This isn’t good. What else am I going to be able to use as my reason for clubbing baby seals?” @BJMendelson Jan 29th “I need to get my haircut, I look like “Special Ed Wolverine.” @BJMendelson Jan 24th

Kate Bellm | http://bit.ly/lsZbWx

“My wife’s Grandmother doesn’t approve of me calling her Win, Lose, or Draw contributions, ‘abominations.’” @BJMendelson Jan 23rd “Hello, Pot? This is Kettle calling. I don’t appreciate the things you’ve been saying about me.” @BJMendelson Jan 22nd “When not telling you about what a waste of money social media is, Brandon Mendelson can be found in your backyard… waiting.” @BJMendelson Jan 19th “I found Batman with Adam West is more enjoyable when you pretend it’s a documentary about a rich schizophrenic and his gay friend.” @BJMendelson Jan 18th “The best time to introduce yourself to a stranger is when they’re using the gym shower.” @BJMendelson Jan 16th “You want a fun visual that’ll stay with you for the rest of your life? Imagine Hugh Hefner and Stan Lee fucking.” @BJMendelson Jan 12th “Martin Luther King had a dream about equality and peace. I had a dream about space zombies. Mine is better.” @BJMendelson Jan 11th “Things I’ve never heard someone say: “I want to be at Disney World riding Minnie.” @BJMendelson Jan 9th “If you’ve got bad news to share with someone you love, you should wait for an awkward moment, like when you’re about to cum in their mouth.” @BJMendelson Jan 8th “I never liked people who left comments on blogs that say, “Great post!” Of course it’s a great post, I fucking wrote it!” @BJMendelson Jan 6th “God: Moses, you remind me of this woman I used to date, you can’t follow directions either, so I’m kicking you out.” @BJMendelson Dec 17th “Internet Headlines You’ll Never See: “I Fucking Love The Ewoks!” @BJMendelson Mar 31st

DEAR D-BAG

By The Bitchy Waiter | 3/24/11 | The Bitchy Waiter

“One time at a job fair, despite lacking any nautical experience, I applied to be the captain of a steamboat.” @BJMendelson Mar 6th

THAT WOMAN WHO MADE THE PANCAKES By @bitchylibrarian | 2/24/11 | Tales From Library Land

Alexey Sorokin | http://bit.ly/kWxSbu

http://bit.ly/ji3woZ

It’s Black History Month. In the past, that meant scrambling to find books or some biographical information in a database on obscure historical figures that may have invented something vaguely useful. Then, the minute the report was finished, these poor bastions of Black History are relegated back to obscurity until the following year.

Now? I can count on one hand the number of students who have asked me for help on a Black History Month report. DAMN YOU, WIKIPEDIA! ::shakes fist:: But even Wikipedia can’t stop the insane questions.

Corett-DUH Scott King: Hi, I’m looking for the book on Rose Parker.

Me: Rose Parker?

Corett-DUH Scott King: Yeah, Rose Parker. And where is your book on Black History?

Me: Well, we have lots of books on Black History. Is there a certain specific topic that you’re interested in? Also, I’m not finding any books in Rose Parker. Could you possibly mean Rosa Parks?

Corett-DUH Scott King: Oh, I don’t know. I guess so. Do you have the book on the Civil Rights?

I’m looking for books from the way back. Also, what about the book on Aunt Jemima? You know, that woman who made the pancakes?

Me: Ma’am, Aunt Jemima is a company, not a real person. And we have LOTS of books on the Civil Rights movement, not just one. I can show you the section and you can look around. How about that? And I’ll see what books we have on Rosa Parks as well.

Very seldomly do patrons leave me speechless, but that woman? Almost did. Aunt Jemima?

What the fucking fuck? Rose Parker? Really, I have no words. And she walked right by my huge Black History Month book display, too.

PHOTOGRAPHY

http://bit.ly/ksbqOs

Dear Douche Bag who sat at table 28 last night, I just wanted to thank you for perpetuating the stereotype that men who go see stand-up comedy shows are gloober-globbery frat boys who have no manners. I was wondering if that myth was a reality and now I know it is true. It was so cool of you to walk into the club and immediately bellow out through your bloated face, “So do I buy my two drinks now or later?” I loved how you said “later” as if there was no “r” on the end of the word and instead it had an “ah.” That was neat.

I apologize that none of us thought it was as funny as you seemed to think it was. Thank you for understanding when we explained to you that it was table service only.

Kudos to you for finding such a sweet girlfriend. She seemed nice despite the way she kept her eyes down towards the floor every time you said something too loud. At first glance, it seemed like maybe she was embarrassed by you, but she was probably just looking to see how clean the floor was, right? I mean, why would she ever be embarrassed by you when you were wearing your pants so baggy that they hung past your ass? Wearing pants that way makes you cool, right? Yeah, I thought so.

When I took your order, I must admit I was surprised by what you wanted. I fully expected you to ask for a Long Island Iced Tea or a shot of Jägermesiter. But you just said “bottled water” in that cute way you do, dropping the “r” and adding an “ah” sound. Remember how I asked you if you wanted sparkling or flat and and you just said, “I dunno, just regular water!” That was adorable. Your girlfriend ordered a Guinness and then a Heineken, and I can only assume that it was to dull her senses and make sitting across from you more tolerable.

You know what else I loved about you, douche bag? I loved how you pulled your chair out from the table and then spread your legs apart really wide, presumably to give your huge penis and low-hanging testicles room to breath. Never mind that it made it near impossible for me to walk past you every time I needed to get to table 35. I’m sure your “boys” appreciated the fresh air seeing that it probably smelled like gym, Goldfish crackers, freshly laid sod, and head cheese in there. And to your girlfriend: if I would have thought about it, I would have given you three free shots of tequila just so you could be prepared when he asked you later to give his “little buddy” a kiss.

Finally, douche bag, I am sorry I wasn’t able to get to you as soon as you yelled “wait-ah” across the room. I know you said it three or four times while waving your money at me. I heard you. I was just dealing with another table, and there were about twelve people between me and you at that moment, and I just couldn’t get to you any sooner. Believe me, I really wanted to drop what I was doing and serve your needs, but sadly I was assisting another guest who was nothing but friendly, polite and charming.

I look forward to seeing you again soon. Thank you for coming in and making my night so special, and most of all thank you for the tip. I was very exited to hear that I could “keep the change” from the sixty dollars that you gave me to cover your $55.14 check. It was the icing on the big smelly, vinegar and water cake.

Love, The Bitchy Waiter P.S. I’m sorry I didn’t have a plastic bag for you to carry your second bottle water in when you left. We don’t normally have “to-go” bags since we are a cocktail bar. Lucky for you, your girlfriend offered to put it in her purse. I know how difficult it would have been for you to carry a bottle of water in your own two hands.

FOR LESS THAN A CUP OF COFFEE A DAY, GET THE PRINTED BLOG DELIVERED STRAIGHT TO YOUR DOOR. HELP THE BLOGGERS YOU LOVE AND THE PHOTOGRAPHERS YOU ADMIRE GET COMPENSATED FOR THE WORK THEY DO AND SHARE WITH YOU. FOR MORE DETAILS VISIT WWW.THEPRINTEDBLOG.COM. Tyler Shields | http://bit.ly/tylershields

18

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PAULY’S PEEVES VOL 4: “THE ELDERLY”

LIFESTYLE

URINAL ROULETTE

By Stacy Dean | 1/22/11 | (Bleep) My Brain Says

By Pauly Casillas | 2/17/11 | Best Worst Advice http://bit.ly/makxVG

I have a confession. I violated Guy Code with regard to “spacing.”

Frankly, I’m surprised guys in the central U.S. didn’t sense a disturbance in the Force last weekend. Certainly, one guy did in the mens’ room of the Exit 171.5 rest area off Interstate 74 along the Ohio-Indiana state line. Or at least, a disturbance in his flow when I violated the code and sidled up right next to him.

Men reading this blog know about spacing. But women readers—I’m going to let you in on an element of Guy Code. No, this isn’t one of the secrets. Those I’d never dare to tell; if I did, a team would arrive at my house late at night, and I’d never be heard from again. But this one is only logistics and not information you could somehow use against us.

You see, girls—spacing is critical when faced with choices of threes or fours. For instance, urinals in a restroom or seats in a waiting room. In the case of urinals, the Code is: *When all are unoccupied, a man should never choose a urinal that would leave another man with no option but to stand next to you. *If another man is “in progress,” you must choose the urinal that leaves at least one open slot between you… and preferably, as many slots as possible. *If the left and right urinals are occupied and only the middle slot available, first assess how badly you have to pee, and only then choose whether it is necessary to plunge in.

This is more than a matter of protecting your shoe tops (or your bare shins, in shorts-wearing weather) from the unfortunate aftermath of an inattentive pee-er. Nor is it just some ages-old personal space dynamic.

Nope. In truth, it’s outright homophobia. We don’t admit it, but we should all know it.

And even the most open minded, “my best friend in high school was gay, and I was fine with it,” Proposition 8-hating man will still find himself unconsciously adhering to this element of the Code. And hence tacitly participating in homophobia.

Mind you, it’s not that most straight men particularly have a problem with gay men. We just don’t want anyone to think WE are.

If you’re standing right next to a guy, what if he looks over at you while you’re holding yourself? And in such close proximity, God forbid you might glance over at him. (Horror! What would that say about you?) And trust me, that’s hard not to do… especially when you’re trying NOT to do it. (It’s a lot like if I tell you right now not to think about the song “My Sharona.” Guess what’s going to rattle around in your head the rest of the day?)

And so, back to the Exit 171.5 rest area. There were only three urinals: the left was occupied by my unsuspecting victim; the middle, open; and the right, an especially low-slung handicap accessible fixture, also open. Past experience told me that rather than use a handicap fixture [think: sheer distance of descent before contact], I might consider just peeing directly on my shoes.

So with only the avoidance of that outcome in mind, I unthinkingly stepped to the middle and thus violated the Code. Apparently, my victim was such a devotee to the Code that he (audibly) ceased all activity that very instant. He froze in place, apparently pondering what to do next, then hastily zipped and rushed out the door. Sans handwashing.

I could peruse the Code to see if there is some penance to atone for my Violation, but really, my conscience is pretty clear. I had a good track record up to the time of this unfortunate oversight, and have steadfastly upheld my end of the Code since. But as for that poor bastard in Ohio—well, I don’t know. He might now be gay.

http://bit.ly/j8CRnS

Hi, Pauly here. I want to talk to you about the elderly. Growing up, I’m sure your parents told you to respect your elders, but fuck all of that. There are some people that just don’t deserve respect no matter what age. Now, I’m not saying you should go to a retirement home and dropkick some old lady out of her slippers. I’m just saying some old people are dicks.

Now, I’m all for helping these old geezers out. I’ll walk an old lady across the street. Hold a door open for an old man. Help someone with bad hips up a curb. I have no problem helping with any of that. It’s just that sometimes you come across some old dickhead that has the same old story about how, if he were my age, it would take 2 of me to whoop his ass. Or some old lady that just doesn’t have time for anything that involves being respectful to someone else because they have shopping to do. I know that some of these old people get taken advantage of, and some old people are at their wit’s end, but common courtesy for another person doesn’t diminish with age.

It’s old people like that that get me all punchy. They look down on you for being your age and thinking that you don’t know shit. They can’t control their rectum anymore, so they’re pissed because your asshole is still nice and tight. No diaper needed. Respect my elders? Fuck that. I’ll respect respectful people.

PHOTOGRAPHY

PHOTOGRAPHY

Alexey Sorokin | http://bit.ly/kWxSbu

30 PUSHED

By Gina Brillon | 2/19/11 | Gina Brillon

Mike Ruiz | http://bit.ly/ihb5QU

Tyler Shields | http://bit.ly/tylershields

http://bit.ly/iii7fX

My first thought on the day of my 30th birthday was “Oh my God… I’m old!” Some people reading this might laugh and think “if she thinks 30 is old…” trust me all you above 30’s out there I understand that to you I’m still a youngin’, but it sure doesn’t feel that way. I am looking forward to the perks of the infamous 30’s. This is the year I will be awarded my wisdom, right?

That’s the big sell of the thirties—that and multiple orgasms, I had always heard that in your thirties sex is its most amazing, Woo Hoo! However, to me, I am now in the contemplative years of my life. That’s what I’m calling my 30’s—my “contemplative” years, it’s so much nicer then thinking of them simply as not my 20’s. This is the age of thought, of evaluation. I think it is that way for a lot of people, men and women alike. Something about your 30th provokes a self-evaluation. Remember when at 25 people would ask where you see yourself in five years? Well?

Where are you?

There is only one answer to the “five year” question that will always be right and that is, drum roll please, five years older. There’s the big TA-DA. We are all always trying to predict what the future us will be or be doing. If you had a chance to talk to the you from five years ago, what would you have to say to him or her? Did any of your five year predictions come true? If I had a chance to talk to the 25-year-old me, I’d tell her to stop trying to predict where she will be and concentrate on where she is, but that could just be my 30-year-old wisdom talking.

You would think by now I would have learned something, right? I was eager to have that epiphany; you know, the one that’s supposed to happen when you’re thirty. I sat outside on the steps and waited, and waited, and waited some more, then suddenly, it hit me, the one thing I know for sure, I hope you’re sitting down cause this might shock you, are you ready? Here it is, the big epiphany that has hit me as I hit thirty, drum roll please, I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING!!!

I don’t know where my life is going, where the time went, why some things work out and others don’t, why people can be so hateful or so loving, why I’m not married, why I don’t have kids, why this new generation of men out there can now out talk women, why the weather here in NYC is as bi-polar as the people, and tens of thousands of more things that I just don’t know.

Here’s one thing that I do know, while before this fated day I was pushing thirty, I can now say that 30 has been officially pushed, and good ol’ thirty ain’t as tuff as she looks. It turns out thirty fits me just right. It doesn’t scare me, and I won’t go around calling it “the new twenty” because it’s not, and any woman who says that should be ashamed of being ashamed of her age.

Thirty has a life of its own, a fullness and wholeness, a coming together of a lot of years. I think I’ve just had another epiphany; the real epiphany is acceptance. I’m gonna own my thirties, just like every woman reading this should own her age. Own it, ladies, you worked hard for it and you deserve it.

VIEWS EXPRESSED WITHIN THE PRINTED BLOG DO NOT NECESSARILY REFLECT THE VIEWS OF THE PUBLISHER OR THE PRINTED BLOG INC. WWW.THEPRINTEDBLOG.COM

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GUEST PHOTOGRAPHY EDITOR — PER ZENNSTRÖM

PER ZENNSTRÖM — GUEST PHOTOGRAPHY EDITOR

DERNIER CRI: PER ZENNSTRÖM ON FASHION & ART

By Beverly Kim | 4/11/11 | The Printed Blog A veteran fashion photographer for nearly twenty years, Swedish native Per Zennström is a recognizable name with clientele ranging from Tush and Feld Qvest, to campaigns with Dior, Guy Laroche, Absolut Vodka, Nina Ricci, and a plethora of other big names. A winner of the Hasselblad Masters Award in March 2002, Per got his start studying photography at Göteborg University and worked as Björn Keller’s assistant in Stockholm and New York before pursuing his own career as a high fashion photographer in Paris.

“I’d like to think that changing something around you gives you the opportunity to reinvent yourself a little bit. You can become the person you want to be. I wouldn’t say I changed by moving to Paris, but I think people looked at me in a different light,” Per says about his decision to move from New York to Paris. Within 3 months of landing in France, Per had an agent and was working full time as a fashion photographer, specializing in a trademark look he calls, “edgy elegant,” a sharp, contemporary take on classic fashion photography influenced by his idol, Irving Penn, that cuts like a knife without losing any of its sensuality and class.

With an almost brutal recognition of the “superficial and fickle” ways of fashion photography, Per turns these negative traits into redeeming qualities by constantly pushing his own boundaries. “It (fashion photography) is changing and changing constantly. And it is, to me, jumping from flower to flower to flower like a honeybee. Nothing is as old as last season’s fashion photography,” says Per. “It’s ruthless. You constantly need to reinvent yourself, constantly need to shoot new stuff, constantly need to come up with new images, and that is very challenging, but it’s also extremely rewarding and fun. I like that you can never rest on your old images. You need to be hungry constantly. You have to swim like a shark. If you stop swimming, you’ll drown.”

Seeing no difference between work and play, Per constantly strives to exceed the expectations of his clients. “I don’t shut down at 5 o’clock. I’m always creating.” An avid appreciator of new media, information, and technology, he strives to redefine what it means to “live life” and to be a photographer, preferring to call himself an “image maker” instead, moving outside the confining lines of digital and still photography, and looking to different platforms of expression with writing and fashion movies.

In 2008, Per released his blog 10 Horses, an informative collection of photographs paired with his writing concerning fashion and pop-culture, taking into full advantage the benefits of new technology and the ability to self-actualize ideas of his own personal interests. In addition to the 10 Horses Blog, he is also the Publisher and Creative Director of his own yearly online magazine, 11 Horses. “I don’t need a magazine to publish my other stuff. With web 2.0 I can go out and publish my own,” Per says of his endeavors outside of photography. A believer in life-long learning and pursuing all interests, Per Zennström lives an active life working in fashion, publishing, and writing while spending time with his family and teaching students, all of which are brimming with the determination and precision his photography implies.

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FASHION

THE BUSINESS OF BLOGGING— TOMMY TON

By Imran Amed | 3/28/11 | The Business of Fashion

http://bit.ly/lqpGUY

PARIS, France—“It was the summer of 1997 and I was 13 years old,” recalls Tommy Ton, now 27, describing the moment when a self-professed comic book nerd from the suburbs of Toronto first became interested in fashion. “My sister asked me to record Fashion Television and all of a sudden Tom Ford comes on and talks about women, and his idea of sex. He was so eloquent in his choice of words. It was love at first sight.”

From that moment, Mr. Ton embarked on what has been described as a something of a fairytale, becoming the world’s most influential street style fashion photographer today. But achieving such success is rarely that simple—or easy.

More than just a skilled photographer with a good eye and encyclopedic knowledge of fashion, Ton has proven himself to be a savvy digital operator with a potent mixture of ambition, work ethic and strategic thinking that has enabled him to discover and hone in on his special talent. His humility throughout it all has endeared him not only to the stylish women he has made famous, but also to fellow fashion bloggers and his growing list of paying clients.

Yes, Tommy Ton is building a business, and he’s proud of it.

At first, Mr. Ton says he simply became infatuated with fashion. “I’d bike to the library, tear out ad campaigns, and make collages of Gucci and Versace,” he explains over dinner during Paris Fashion Week. At age 15, he interned with the Toronto designer Wayne Clark and then in the women’s accessories department of Holt Renfrew, Canada’s leading luxury department store.

From the beginning, Ton has been a fervent but charming networker, not afraid to approach and build relationships with the industry’s top players. “I made an effort so Barbara Atkin knew who I was,” he says, referring to the Holt Renfrew’s highly-respected fashion director. This ultimately landed him a gig in the store’s buying office, furthering his understanding of the fashion business, but still not quite sating his fashion appetite.

“I was there in the Summer of 2004 when web magazines first started popping up,” he says.

Ton started taking classes in digital photography and met with friends who did graphic design, before deciding to start Jak & Jil, which was initially conceived in 2005 as a lifestyle website focused on the product and people in Toronto.

“Then my guardian angel came along,” says Ton, referring to Lynda Latner, proprietor of vintagecouture.com. “She hired me because she saw my site and thought I could help her.”

In 2007, when Latner offered to send Ton to Europe to attend the shows in London and Paris, he had his first opportunity to experiment with street photography during fashion week, a trend which was just beginning to take off due to the pioneering work of Scott Schuman and Garance Doré.

“My first show in Paris was Balmain. I had no idea what Balmain was at the time, or what it was going to be, but all the girls were in that show, like Daria, Irina, and Anja, and they played The Cure on the soundtrack. As soon as that show was done, it was raining outside… and I was dancing in the rain. I just felt so uplifted. I could not believe what fashion could do for you,” recalls Ton nostalgically. “To have that moment in Paris, at your very first show… it was magical.”

Using his “Canadian connections,” Ton also managed to get into Chanel, YSL, Dries van Noten and Rick Owens that first season. But in all the excitement, Ton says he didn’t know who or what to shoot. “I just shot what I thought was visually amazing. I didn’t know who Emmanuelle Alt was, or Kate Lanphear or even Anna Dello Russo.”

Almost immediately after this first trip, the Canadian fashion media took note of Ton’s photography, beginning with Flare magazine editor Lisa Tant. “Because of that trip, I got a page in Flare which gave me a validated reason to go back,” he says.

By 2008, Ton was already seeking a way to stand out from the growing hordes of photographers outside the shows who were mostly aping Schuman’s photographic style. “I thought, ‘I’m so tired of taking head-to-toe shots. No one can touch Scott at those photos—he is the king.’ I wanted my photos to stand out. That’s when I started taking the candid shots.”

Ton’s landscape-style images focused in on the little details that caught his well-trained fashion eye—a towering Louboutin stiletto here, a pop of color there on his favourite subjects as they walked into the shows. He rarely asked them to pose. Ton was developing a photographic style that has now become instantly recognizable as his own, capturing the raw energy and excitement of fashion week. Fellow blogger Tavi Gevinson later remarked, “You always know what a Tommy Ton photograph looks like.”

He re-purposed Jak and Jil into a blog, and started posting two or three of his new style of photographs each day. This caught the attention of influential bloggers like Susanna Lau of Style Bubble and Rumi Neely of Fashion Toast, who helped to spread the word.

Two and half months later, Ton received an email from the head of marketing at Lane Crawford in Hong Kong, asking him to shoot their Spring/Summer 2009 campaign.

“I said yes, but I didn’t even know what my worth was,” says Ton. “After talking to my business friends in the industry, I threw a figure at Lane Crawford. It was a bit too much, but we negotiated, and I was proud of myself because I was able to get an amount that I was satisfied with and which they were willing to pay.”

With his reputation spreading, Ton’s confidence began to grow. “During the Fall/Winter 2009 season, people started to know who I was. Scott [Schuman] actually knew my work. I was officially blogging and shooting for Lane Crawford at the same time. That was the season I knew what I was doing, and I knew what I wanted to shoot. It was the beginning of something.”

Another important shift came the following season in Milan, when Ton was seated in Dolce & Gabbana’s front row, alongside Doré, Schuman and Bryanboy, an image that was plastered in the fashion media around the world, signalling the arrival of fashion bloggers. “That was a huge moment. It was all due to Anna Dello Russo. She was the one who told Domenico and Stefano: ‘These are the people who are changing things.’”

From then on, the front row tickets came in fast and furious. Everyone wanted Ton to shoot at their shows, knowing his images would be seen by thousands of fashion enthusiasts and influencers around the world. The New York Times, The Boston Globe, and others came calling.

“They were emailing to buy photos,” he says.

Ton went from ultimate fashion outsider to insider almost overnight.

But the real turning point came a few weeks earlier when Style.com’s editor-in-chief Dirk Standen asked Ton to step into the formidable shoes of Scott Schuman, whose own photography career had gone stratospheric, in no small part due to the platform given to him by Style.com.

Schuman had decided to leave Style.com to focus on other projects, and Ton now had the most high-profile streetstyle photography gig in the business.

“Being associated with Style.com is a huge deal for me. It’s what everyone looks at every day.

People go to Style.com like you brush your teeth in the morning. It’s something you just do,” enthuses Ton. By now, the time had come for Ton to seek professional representation. An introduction to elite agency The Collective Shift—which also represents top fashion photographers Inez and Vinoodh and super-stylist Melanie Ward—instantly felt like the right fit. Ton also signed on Trunk Archive to act as his image licensing agency, removing the burden of negotiating image rights and contracts on his own and dramatically increasing what he could earn from selling his images to the likes of American Vogue, Elle UK, and Vogue Nippon.

“Before, I was underselling myself, getting about $50-100 per image.” Today, Ton reports that he can earn from as little as $100 up to $2000. “The the thing I’ve learned is that you have to really consider whether it’s a one page image or a ½ page image or ¼ page image. It’s a really big deal when it’s one image over two pages in Grazia for example, whereas if it’s ⅛ of a page in Vogue, it is much less. I’m lucky to have Trunk Archive to deal with all that now.”

But image licensing only makes up about 30 percent of the revenue he earns. The remaining 70 percent comes from a variety of projects, including his gigs for Style.com, GQ.com, but also for retailers and brands such as Topshop, Selfridges, Sergio Rossi and Saks 5th Avenue.

continues…

Ton says he has made an intentional decision not to have advertising on his site. “It’s an association with your brand. I didn’t want my blog to be associated with any type of branding,” he explains.

But would he ever take pay for editorial placement on Jak & Jil itself? “Yes,” he says matter-offactly. “But that requires a discussion between my agent, my client and me. The thing about the development of the Tommy Ton brand and the Jak & Jil brand is that everything is strategically selected and carefully monitored. We have to see potential growth in it, and understand what’s in it for us.”

When pressed on the criteria he uses for this kind of paid content, so as not to alienate his audience, he pauses to think. “It’s definitely gut instinct. It just has to be of the moment and relevant for the time.” His readers shouldn’t be able to tell the difference, he says, because the images he creates would be the kind he would post anyway. The standards are the same, and the images are just as powerful.

All the same, Tommy Ton also realizes this is his moment and it may not last forever. “I don’t even know if I will be able to earn the money I do now in a few years. I don’t know if I will be relevant or not. I am just lucky that people want to associate with me and their brand right now.”

And what about all that competition from the hundreds of streetstyle bloggers outside the shows? “You always have to stay on top of your game, and the only way to do that now is to have exclusive content,” he asserts. Recently, Ton has been invited to shoot behind-the-scenes at the Proenza Schouler studio and the Victoria’s Secret fashion show.

“I’m not making any money from it, but it gives me access no one else would have. I take a lot of pride in that. I am so, so happy I am invited to do these things,” he says, recalling that 13-year-old kid watching Tom Ford on TV back in Toronto. “In some ways I still feel like an outsider, even though I am acknowledged by these designers. I am still in awe of what is going on.”

PHOTOGRAPHY

Anoush Abrar and Aimée Hoving | http://bit.ly/lFhZLP

SHOULD TALENT BE BOYCOTTED IN FAVOUR OF MORALITY? HERE’S LOOKIN’ AT YOU, GALLIANO.

By Laura Hunter-Thomas | 3/21/11 | Beauty, Not Bullshit

http://bit.ly/luWkeu

The uproar over John Galliano’s recent anti-Semitic comments has been quite allencompassing, and rightly so—anti-Semitism, racism, and really any kind of discrimination have no place in our society. I, for one, have been quite harsh in my judgment on the events, condemning Galliano for his behaviour and his peers for maintaining a stay of execution. I thoroughly believe, contrary to Galliano’s lawyer (who claimed that ‘it can happen to any one of us’), that there are some things you just do not say, no matter how intoxicated, with alcohol or other substances.

Galliano’s comments were abhorrent and hopefully the incident will never be repeated.

However, upon reading that Saks Fifth Avenue had pulled Galliano’s eponymous line from the floor of the flagship Manhattan store (general manager Suzanne Johnson had no qualms about manning the guillotine, stating: “We have values like I hope everyone else has. What happened was not right, and we would not want to carry [Galliano’s] merchandise”), I got to thinking. While I absolutely decry Galliano’s behaviour, I found myself wondering: just because someone does something morally abhorrent, does that mean we should boycott their professional offerings to the world, particularly if they happen to be quite good?

After all, one might argue that the professional and personal spheres are worlds apart, especially in arenas such as fashion. It is easy to judge celebrities by their actions, for example, and to afford them credit and loyalty (or not) as a result, because in some way they are selling themselves to the tabloids—their personalities. Therefore, if Lindsay Lohan goes on a drugwhoring Page Six-splash bonanza, it is more expected, more logically justifiable, that we might condemn her and decide never to watch her show again, or listen to her music, or condone whatever the hell it is she does, anyway.

But it isn’t quite the same story with someone who sells their work to the world. At the end of the day, the thing that actually has a price tag dangling from it—the ultimate sign that something is worth attention and judgment—is something that has been created, a separate entity from its creator. Hence, the professional and personal worlds are separated. After all, no one, not even in his own time when such actions were considered scandalous, stopped reading Oscar Wilde’s works simply because they disliked his flamboyant behaviour. It is a matter of judging the creator versus judging the creations. And shouldn’t we judge that which is responsible for the offense, rather than deflecting the attention elsewhere?

On the flip side of the coin, however, is the question of punishment. Whether or not someone believes that in fact a professional creation is not as separate as it may seem (don’t many authors refer to their books as parts of themselves, for example?), especially when the creator personally profits from it, the fact is that when we wish, as a society, to express displeasure towards the action of a publically visible figure, the only thing we can do in the way of ‘punishment’ (though this is really a misnomer: what we are really trying to do is establish natural justice and distinguish ourselves from the abhorrent actions of this champion of society, this celebrated figure who is supposed to represent the approval of thousands if not millions of people) is to boycott that figure’s ‘professional’ offerings. In this case, this equals not buying or wearing Galliano’s clothes as a consumer, or pulling his creations from the floor of a store as an enabler.

When all is said and done, I believe that the question of whether or not we should be boycotting Galliano’s clothes is a personal one. Each person will make up their own mind as to whether they will continue to sport John Galliano, and the decision will be the right one for each individual person. In case you’re interested, my decision is thus: I will not be boycotting Galliano’s clothes, as I believe that the court case and trial, subsequent punishment, and the condemnation of peers and public alike is appropriate punishment. Note that I said appropriate, not adequate.

It may well not be adequate—only time will tell. Nonetheless, I will not be boycotting something beautiful just to make a point of refuting something ugly.

What do you think? Do you support the idea of boycotting Galliano’s clothes, or do you think that decision would be pointless? Sound off.

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CULTURE

USING THE SPACE THERE IS: HOMELESS IN PUBLIC STORAGE

By Alex Schmidt | 12/21/10 | Spot.us

http://bit.ly/kWRoaI

They joke with each other like neighbors do, share stories, spend time together.

The pair, 39-year-old Joey and 59-year-old Michael, have developed a little community, together with their friend Andy. But this is not a traditional neighborhood.

The three wile away their days in a public storage space near Hollywood. During the daylight hours most days of the week, the three of them hang out in their storage units. At night, Joey and Andy lay their heads on the street, while Michael crashes with a friend, because it would be illegal for them to sleep there. They asked that the name of the space not be mentioned.

Public storage units lack the insulation, fire code compliance and seismic structural integrity, and often are too small, to be legal dwellings. Still, across the country, an untold number of people use these spaces as full or part-time homes.

It’s more common than one might think. Local officials working with the homeless cite someone like Sarah, not her real name, who lives in hers around the clock. While some public storage units force people to leave when the spaces close, around 6 or 7 p.m., she has found a way to make the space a full-time dwelling, carefully monitoring the times when managers do their security walk-throughs, and has lived unnoticed for two years.

According to the definitions of many homeless advocates, people like Joey, “Sarah,” Michael and Andy are homeless. Yet, they have found semi-permanent spaces to call their own—paying rent, in fact. Joey has lived in his 12-foot by 6-foot space for nearly five years at $60 per month.

And so, without knowing it, those who live in public storage occupy a grey area—and a bitter fault line—in the world of homeless advocacy. They are neither completely homeless, nor are they fully housed. It’s a situation that pits pragmatists on one side, idealists on the other.

Better than the street Staunchly in the camp of the pragmatists is Peter Samuelson, who lives in an expansive salmon-colored house in the Holmby Hills neighborhood of West L.A. If living in a house is a 10 on a scale of one to ten, and living full-time on the street is a one, Samuelson has developed a temporary answer to homelessness that he calls a three or a four. It’s a tent-like structure on wheels called an EDAR (short for Everyone Deserves a Roof). The EDAR is meant to take the place of a shopping cart, providing folks a place to store belongings, and convert, at night, into a makeshift dwelling with a mattress in it.

Samuelson, a longtime Hollywood producer, dreamed up the EDAR after talking to a woman who lived in a refrigerator box underneath a freeway overpass. “I got the refrigerator and she got the box,” he says. “It just shouldn’t be. It offended me. So I thought ‘Well, what is better than a damp cardboard box?’ ” Certainly the public storage spaces where Joey and Michael spend their hours are that.

The men attach extension cords to electrical outlets in the hall outside their units. They use the power to run a laptop, which Michael procured for Joey to, figuratively, “get him out of the cave.”

(Michael picks up freelance jobs here and there doing IT work.)

Joey has scabs on his face, and dirt from years of street living has merged with the skin of his hands. He showers about once a month at a public facility in Santa Monica, and buys food with government assistance checks or gets free meals at a church nearby. For a bathroom, there’s a portable toilet on the storage unit grounds. He has a sort of tick where he drops sentences, which may be attributed to what he says is a diagnosis of schizoaffective disorder. Still, he often reveals a warm, gap-toothed smile, but is largely coherent. Speaking of Joey, Michael says, “He’s a little nutty.”

“A little?” asks Joey.

“But he’s generous and kind. He’s a good person,” Michael says.

Joey keeps his laptop snugly in the nook of a pretty antique wooden bureau, which is also where he keeps his personal papers and his tools. He spends most of his time hunched on a chair, facing outward to the hall, and turned to his left to peer in at the laptop through the little nook.

Or, he repairs things he’s found in the trash. Michael stores several guitars and amps in his space, and often takes them out to play. He loves the song “Waterfalls” by TLC. He says it’s realistic like the streets, but also says that you can rise above the streets.

On Samuelson’s scale, public storage living might be a six. Samuelson also is working on a solution that is closer to an ideal than the EDAR. He figures steel shipping containers, which are usually melted down when they come from China, could be purchased for $2,000 and converted into transitional living spaces with the addition of windows.

In the opposite corner Stephanie Klasky-Gamer, president of housing charity Los Angeles Family Housing, does not advocate for these types of solutions. “I think that some people advocate for very temporary solutions and LA Family Housing advocates for long-term solutions,” she says. “It’s just a difference of opinion and a different way of addressing homelessness.”

In the idealist camp of homeless advocacy, Klasky-Gamer believes that permanent, long-term housing is the most sustainable way of solving homelessness. Or, she says, governments could expand Section VIII subsidized housing to make existing housing stock more affordable. Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa’s office says it does not have any firm assurances on whether Section VIII, which is competitively distributed by HUD, will be expanded.

But making the middle-road solution that Joey and Michael have already created into a legal dwelling—or building small, public storage-like structures for housing—would require modifying building codes. Klasky-Gamer had never heard of anyone try to do this, and she thinks the codes are fine the way they are. Anyhow, she says that middle-road solutions are merely Band-Aids for a much deeper wound.

One of the most roundly derided Band-Aids is the now-disappeared Dome Village of Downtown Los Angeles. Somewhere between the EDAR, public storage spaces and shipping container solutions, Dome Village housed homeless people in dozens of white igloo-like structures in an empty lot from 1993 to 2006. It disbanded when the owner of the lot raised rents.

To some, that isn’t even an option to bring back.

Tanya Tull, president of long-term advocacy group Beyond Shelter, says, “Why would anyone even bring that up?” She continues: “Come on, you’re smart—we have to be smart about this,” implying that if anyone who thought long and hard enough about it inevitably would agree that building permanent housing is the only real way.

Middle-ground solution or long-term housing?

That people must be taken off the streets—much less placed in permanent, long-term housing—is a premise of homeless advocacy that sociology professor Jason Wasserman questions.

Last year, he published At Home on the Street, a book that examines the reasons people choose the streets over the services that homeless activists provide.

While Joey says he knows he might be able to live in shelters or public housing, he prefers not to.

“I’ve learned not to associate too much with other people… people just take other people’s stuff and don’t care about the consequences. In a shelter it’s more likely for that to happen. Here you don’t get harassed.” The public storage units allow him to associate with his own limited, organic community—rather than an imposed, institutional one.

Yet the structures of advocacy often cause groups to see one solution as being to the exclusion of others. In one instance over the course of Wasserman’s research, a coalition of homeless service providers in Birmingham, Ala., sent a cease and desist letter to Food Not Bombs, which was providing food to homeless folks “outside the coalition’s sphere of influence.”

Wasserman says that service providers operate in a competitive social marketplace, and that they feel they must present “their solution as the solution.” Not only do providers compete for limited public and private funds, but there are worries that if the needy choose one solution, then others will be left by the wayside. If EDAR or Dome Village or shipping containers really were attractive options, why would the homeless ever seek permanent or shelter housing?

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continues…

Yet such permanent options are billions of dollars and years away from being reality. Plus, Wasserman says, they do not take into account the needs and wants of rational individuals.

Instead of forcing homeless folks into a shared vision of a solution, providers should be open to all options that meet the vision and needs of each person.

“Someone that wants off the street should be able to get off the street, but we can’t start with the presumption that everyone deserves the same life,” he says.

Out of nearly 30,000 homeless people in the city of Los Angeles, roughly half are unsheltered. While there is a lack of shelter housing, there also are a significant number of people, like Joey, who have made their own decision to pursue other solutions.

The concept of home has a socio-biological explanation, of course; shelter is a basic physical need. But from there, things get cultural. In Japan, for example, a unit of housing is much closer in size to a unit of American public storage. But in Los Angeles County, a legally defined home must have at least one room with a minimum of 120 square feet, and each additional room must measure 60 square feet. Most building codes were established when large metropolitan areas were trying to deal with problems of crowded tenements and scarcely have been modified since. The building codes of the LA Building and Safety Department have not been altered since 1953.

Those who live in public storage have found their own niche among many loaded proscriptions and standards. Really, though, housing—particularly of the sort that public storage provides—gets at a much more basic quandary of existence.

As Michael puts it: “You have to be somewhere.”

PHOTOGRAPHY

Anka Bardeleben| http://bit.ly/m7lVCV INTERVIEW

By David Cohn | 4/08/11 | Spot.US

http://bit.ly/lU8WGk

David Cohn has written for Wired, Seed, Columbia Journalism Review and The New York Times among other publications. While working toward his master’s degree at Columbia University’s Graduate School of Journalism, Cohn worked as the editor at groundbreaking newassignment.net in 2006, which focused on citizen journalism and ways news organizations could explore the social web. Cohn also worked with Jeff Jarvis from Buzzmachine.com to organize the first Networked Journalism Summits, which brought together the best practices of collaborative journalism three years in a row (2007-2009).

He has been a contributing editor at NewsTrust.net, a founding editor of Broowaha and most recently created Spot.Us, a nonprofit that is pioneering “community funded reporting.” He is currently a fellow at the Reynolds Institute of Journalism and is a frequent speaker on topics related to new media and beyond.

Spot.Us is an open source project to pioneer “community powered reporting.” Through Spot.Us the public can commission and participate with journalists to do reporting on important and perhaps overlooked topics. Contributions are tax deductible and we partner with news organizations to distribute content under appropriate licenses. Our mission is to make the process of journalism more transparent and participatory.

Check out the latest pitches on Spot.Us here: http://spot.us/stories/unfunded to get involved. Once you find one that you like, either click “donate” and you can contribute via credit card or paypal, or click “Free Credits” and participate in a survey from one of our sponsors. When you finish the survey your account will have credits that you can donate to the pitch of your choice and it’ll be free to you! After you donate you’ll receive updates on the progress of the story and a notification once it’s published.

Pitches that currently need funding: 1. http://spot.us/pitches/855 As the government’s economic support for the middle class evaporates, an under covered story is how this affects the dreams of the children in the next generation. Why would teenagers who have seen their parents’ economic foundation ripped away and their pensions along with it, strive to replicate their elders’ dreams? Why would you buy into a society that seems not to be buying in to the idea of your future?

2. http://spot.us/pitches/856 This project is a photography book project about a group of seldom-celebrated heroes, namely the men and women of America’s volunteer firefighters. The eventual book, which we are calling Local Heroes, will have portraits of the firefighters along with about 150 words about each individual.

The book is due to be completed by mid summer 2011 and published in early 2012.

3. http://spot.us/pitches/857 Japan’s earthquake, tsunami and nuclear catastrophe have prompted questions about the U.S.’s own risks, particularly in the Pacific Northwest. Aside from the possibility of a subduction quake ripping apart the Northwest, the shadow of the drama now playing out at the nuclear facility in Fukushima looms further inland. Two hundred miles from the coast, the Hanford Nuclear Reservation and its Columbia Generating Station—the only commercial nuclear plant in Washington—could be damaged by quakes from the seismically active Columbia Plateau. Such a disaster would threaten the quickly-growing Tri-Cities area. Operators of the Columbia Generating Station say the plant is safe, but as late as the day of the Japanese quake, federal regulators had questioned the plant’s use of old seismic models as the basis for its emergency plans, even though newer, more detailed ones exist. If such concerns exist, how can the public be confident of the plant’s safety?

4. http://spot.us/pitches/861 Two beat reporters from the San Francisco Public Press hit the streets this spring to cover plans to redevelop mid-Market Street, the lack of simple sanitation services such as bathrooms and running water, the proposed Tenderloin Museum and Newsom’s Care Not Cash program aimed at diverting people off the streets. Coverage of homelessness in San Francisco has been sporadic, superficial and sensationalized. We’re planning to match statements of public officials with voices from the streets.

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OUR DISEASED WORLD

PHOTOGRAPHY

By Stuart Goldman | 2/07/11 | The Man Who Tried To Stop Time

Ausra Osipaviciute | http://bit.ly/ku71AS CULTURE

ETHICS IS THE TRUE HUMANITARIAN AID

By Paul Ruth | 3/12/11 | Perspective On Reflection

http://bit.ly/iq810d

As the world’s 3rd largest economy, the destruction in Japan will affect the world on whole.

The globalized marketplace rest on sovereign nations’ road to prosperity. In fragile times, the poorest of countries tend to be hit harder for many factors involved, yet that is not the point of concern. There must be a global effort on sustaining logical ethics in the course of dramatic events. Government agencies must understand and quell the emotional reaction of markets, traders, and investors. There is no question that the country of Japan will rise agin like the sun, but it will be a long road that takes world cooperation and insight.

Humanitarian aid must take precedent, but watchdogs must also be vigilant. After the crisis in Lybia and a fire at a refinery caused by the quake, energy markets must not think solely on profits and think more on ethics. The business community cannot be naive to think that people would not take advantage of a world that can be brought to its knees. If capitalism has taught the world anything, it is that there are people that seek power for the sake of power. Greed walks in hand with evil, and ignorance walks with apathy.

The concern for ethical business practice is nothing new in recent headlines, and financial fallouts. What needs to take center is a discussion about what constitutes ethical action, and how must a business community enforce and respond to wrongful deeds. It must be the responsibility of all those in sight of actions to make judgements, and communicate when things go awry. The more sustainable business innovation must address the concern against the more destructive force in civil society, which is the absence of justified duty. In the wake of recent global catastrophes that go back a few years now, cultures must look at ways to deal with crisis in a safe and efficient way to limit the suffering.

The discipline of business in a free market world is answering one basic question. How can commerce operate in a way that allows for the greatest stability and prosperity for all? This is not an attack on the wealthy, nor is it an acknowledgment for communal living. It is not a goal that tends toward all people receiving equal compensation. It is the opposite of the opposing economic argument. Good business is good ethics, which make good in society. In a world where everything from labor to food is judged by amount paid for, one must understand that money is the flow of relative value. The highest valued commodity in the world is talent. Talent is what teams look for, and what companies try to develop. The mind is of the greatest importance, which in light of devastation the mind must not be wasted. In all actions that will be taken in the coming months, the ones that keep the hopes of the world close will be the ones that make the greatest difference.

Humanitarian aid should not be a band-aid. It should be physical resources utilized in maximum capacity. Nothing is done without the human intellect taking a role to control the means to an end. This is what makes ethics the most important humanitarian aid. People have a choice to act, or not to act. They obtain free will to point the finger, or lend a hand. The recent disasters require ethical guidance to activate for our most valuable tool—human thought. There will always be those who care the most, but it is the responsibility of all to find a new world order in justice and reason.

http://bit.ly/k1Zuh4

I have spent a lot of time around illness during the last year. Last night, it struck me at 3:00 a.m. (this is the time of day when I get my “revelations”) that a sick body is the perfect metaphor for our world today.

None of us can deny that the world we live in is diseased, polluted. Unless we choose to put our heads in the sand, we must face this fact. However, most of us never deal with illness—either in ourselves or in the world—until it touches us personally; then, suddenly we become very concerned with healing.

Most of the time, when we are ill, if we are lucky, our bodies repair themselves. However, in the elderly, oftentimes the immune system is no longer strong enough to fight off the disease, and, organ by organ, the body simply, gradually shuts down. The person dies.

I believe that our world today is dying. I think that it is so polluted, so diseased, that it is inevitable that the world will eventually expire. Because I don’t believe in prophecies or any of that nonsense, I refuse to make any predictions as to when this will happen. But I don’t think it is that far off. Call me a “doomsayer” if you will, but this is what I see. Let me amend that: Our world will die, unless we take action—immediately.

If you agree, the question immediately becomes, “What do we do?” We can get involved in causes—environmental, political or some other thing. Or we can go to the core of things and realize that the world is sick because each of us is sick. J. Krishnamurti has a book entitled, We are the World, and, though I do not particularly care for this man’s teaching, this statement is absolutely true: The world is not separate from you and I. So, if we are to cure this diseased, dying world, we must begin with ourselves and see that each of us is sick.

Someone else (I don’t know who) said, “Physician, heal thyself.” But the truth is you can’t heal yourself. Nor, obviously, can doctors heal you. The only one who can heal is God. If you don’t believe in God, then you can call it “nature,” I don’t care. But most of us don’t even want to admit we are sick. And worse, we don’t want to admit that we have absolutely no idea what to do about it.

I am not talking about healing the body, because obviously each one of our bodies will eventually die. That is why I find it so ugly, so absurd, that we have become a nation that is so obsessed with health and fitness (most of which is due to thinly disguised vanity and narcissism). Not that being fit is bad, but it has nothing whatsoever to do with the real problem. It is our souls, our hearts that are sick, diseased, full of poison. They are poisoned every single day by everything around us—by the newspapers, the TV, the movies, the politicians, and mostly by the acts we commit.

In order to heal ourselves, we must refrain from indulging in the things that make us sick.

Most of us don’t want to do that because we are all addicted to something or other, whether it be entertainment, or food or drugs (legal or illegal). Worst of all, we are addicted to our ideas, our opinions. We are unwilling to give up our beliefs, because without them, we are nothing; we have no identity. But I say that unless we are willing to give up all our addictions, including our ideas, we are doomed. And our world will die.

Now you may say, well what has all this to do with “spiritual warfare?” But you see, this is precisely what spiritual warfare is all about. Cleansing our souls. Spiritual warfare cannot be waged in this or that particular area of our lives. It must encompass each and every area—from the deep to the shallow.

Evil works on us at many levels. And evil may not always be so obvious as two demonpossessed punks walking through hallways of a high school and shooting down their classmates.

Sometimes, evil is much less obvious. Sometimes, it may seem almost mundane.

You know, you may want to take your family to the latest movie (and I don’t just mean the latest slasher flick), and you may think, well what’s the harm? But I truly believe that we must all hone our level of awareness. We must become so spiritually keen, so sharp—and in that light we must consider every single action we take. In order to become spiritually sharp—so that our senses are alerted at the slightest smell of evil—we must spend time alone with God, because only in quiet can we begin to learn and practice discernment.

We have all been dulled, deadened by the things of the world. That is a trick of evil—to distract us. But we can no longer afford to be distracted. It is not easy in this noisy world so full of distractions to find a quiet place where we can be alone with our hearts. It is not easy, because when you finally find that quiet place, you will see that your mind never stops chattering. I don’t care whether the chattering consists of the lyrics of some stupid pop song, or whether you are reciting biblical phrases; if you are not quiet, you will never be able to “see.” Just repeating this or that does not help you to discern.

I know that saying this will anger some of you who like to think that by going around reciting the Bible, you are going to become better human beings. Sorry, I believe that is false. I don’t care whether you repeat the Bible or the B’hagvad Gita—the repetition of anything has no effect but to deaden the mind.

All I’m saying is that if you are serious about engaging in spiritual warfare, if you are concerned with our diseased, dying world, you must first of all be able to truly look. And in order to look you must be quiet. Only out of quiet can you begin to see. And when you see that you are ill—not as an idea, but actually to see it, to taste it—only then is there a possibility of getting well.

So let us leave off here, and we will pick up this issue next time.

PHOTOGRAPHY

Stephanie Bassos | http://bit.ly/kdxDoN

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THE PRINTED BLOG TEAM

HANNAH FAYE / COMMUNITY MANAGER AND ASSISTANT PUBLISHER Hannah Faye is a writer, an insomniac, a caffeine addict, a bookworm, a music lover, a beach bum, and a collection of other things. A Jersey girl originally (and forever at heart), she moved from LBI to big city Chicago in order to attend Columbia College, where she graduated with a BA in Fiction Writing in the spring. When she’s not working as an Assistant Publisher and Community Manager at The Printed Blog, Hannah spends her time exploring the city or shouting obscenities at sporting events on the television, depending on the season.

BEVERLY KIM / ASSOCIATE EDITOR AND ASSISTANT PUBLISHER Say “chocolate” and you’ll never see a face light up as devilishly and quickly as Beverly Kim’s. A Chicago native with a cynical streak, Beverly is also a freelance writer and occasional photography model in addition to working as an Associate Editor and Assistant Publisher at The Printed Blog.

She is an avid painter and short fiction writer with an affinity for creative work about the surreal and unstable. On the weekends, Beverly can be found promoting electronic music events, going to shows and raves, or sitting in her pajamas, cradled into the couch, gaming on her Playstation 3 with a pint of ice cream or a glass of wine (but not together, of course). Currently, Beverly is working towards completing her English degree at DePaul University and limiting her sugar intake to thrice a day. Her rants can be read on her personal blog http://bkeins.wordpress.com.

ALLISON BULGER / ASSISTANT PUBLISHER Allison Bulger grew up in Plano, Texas and is now a student at The University of Chicago, where she studies Philosophy and Creative Writing. She likes candy, driving, bad dogs, bad boys, and LA sunlight. When she’s not working as an Assistant Publisher at The Printed Blog, she enjoys reading, applying lipstick, and eluding social reality.

ARUSHI KHOSLA / GUEST FASHION EDITOR Making waves in fashion is 16 year old fashion blogger, Arushi Khosla from New Delhi, India. Always an avid lover of clothes, it wasn’t until the age of 13 when she delved into the world of high fashion.

When not studying at school, meeting other bloggers and industry contacts, or contributing her writing to well regarded companies such as French Connection India, Arushi is also maintaining her own personal fashion blog, Bohemian Like You. Bohemian Like You began as an inspiration folder, but now features many of the unique styles that she wears. Though working through the limitations of her young age and her far location is tedious, Arushi is able to maintain a flow of writing and work. She plans to intern in New York City this summer with her goal of entering into fashion PR.

PAULY CASILLAS / GUEST HUMOR EDITOR Funny man Pauly Casillas from Tuscan Arizona teamed up with friend, Mayor Burnsy, to create the sarcasm and wit site, bestworstadvice.com. Aside from the website, Pauly also is the brains behind well-known Twitter parody accounts such as @NotGaryBusey and @NotJayCutler, constantly streaming a steady trail of snappy, intelligent jokes that brighten a dull or depressing day. He enjoys most the satisfaction from making someone’s day or reading a comment by a fan appreciating his humor. Pauly has a knack for taking internet memes and reinterpreting them into a fresh angle before they wear out, creating new thoughts and original content that his thousands of subscribers retweet and love every day. Currently, Pauly is focusing on his one month old baby and his standup career while planning to write comedy pilots in the future.

BRANDON MENDELSON / GUEST HUMOR EDITOR A humorist and social critic, Brandon Mendelson of New York has a biting sense of humor and a frank perspective which is dispensed in teaspoons in the form of tweets to his nearly nine hundred thousand followers on Twitter. Though the number dwarfs many well known users and even celebrities, Brandon makes a specific point to note that this number is absolutely meaningless.

Hence Brandon’s new book, Social Media is Bullshit— a serious commentary that dispels the misconceptions of how things spread on the web in a humorous voice, is coming out this April.

Currently, Brandon also has plans to self-publish his own creative endeavor, Dracula and Kittens, while doing more stand-up comedy.

THE BITCHY WAITER / GUEST HUMOR EDITOR Touching base in New York is The Bitchy Waiter, favored for his quick wit and smart attitude, a dedicated fan base checks his self-titled blog frequently to hear about the escapades of the “waiting” game. Starting out as a way of venting out his frustrations on the job, The Bitchy Waiter quickly grew exponentially in the number of readers and now takes in questions to answer in advice. Though a complaint blog, The Bitchy Waiter also notes that there are redeeming qualities about the job such as communication and the new interactions with different people every day that keep the job from getting boring. Perhaps the best part about writing The Bitchy Waiter, he says, is how touched he feels when he receives an email about making the tiniest difference in someone else’s life that day. Ideally, as an aspiring actor, The Bitchy Waiter and his blog would be turned into a television series or book. And this summer, you can find The Bitchy Waiter relaxing on Long Island Beach, eating macaroni n’ cheese.

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LAURA HUNTER-THOMAS / GUEST FASHION EDITOR Currently training to be an Olympic fencer in the upcoming 2012 and 2016 Olympics is fashion blogger Laura Hunter-Thomas from the United Kingdom. An advocate of pro-health and anti-stereotypical fashion mantra, Laura devotes much of her writing supporting these ideas to Beauty, Not Bullshit. Her writing also focuses on promoting other bloggers and social topics related to fashion, straying away from the usual image based blogging to focus on writing pertinent and affective content for her readers.

She firmly believes there is no such thing as “average,” championing the idea that fashion is not limited but rather expansive. Laura is a lover of vivid, bold colors that she often pulls together in a look she calls “Kitschy Glam.” Her favorite up and coming designer is Michael Van Der Ham. MELYSA SCHMITT / CONTRIBUTING EDITOR Funny. Sexy. Inspiring. These are the three words that describe SexLiesandBacon, New Jersey native Melysa Schmitt’s candid lifestyle blog. Between finding time in raising her young son as a single mom and working, Melysa writes her brazenly honest humor in hindsight despite criticism from both groups from the online community and her own relatives. Though she has her concerns for the well-being of her son, Melysa, who had previously written about parenting on NJ.com, has developed a distinct, sharp and snappy voice through her personal blogging, allowing for her to reach out to her readers with a simple, underlying message: That the strength that you get when you realize you’re your own individual is the most powerful thing. Ultimately, Melysa wants to write comedy for a sitcom and plans to start her own podcast.

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